


Spes Arcana

by heylittleriotact



Series: Endless Possibilities [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Fortune Telling, Haven, Recreational Drug Use, card turning, early inquisition, positive drug experience, pretty much complete strangers, subtle magic, tarot involvement, the singing maiden
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-11
Updated: 2016-06-12
Packaged: 2018-05-06 23:03:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 27,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5434121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heylittleriotact/pseuds/heylittleriotact
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is the early days of the Inquisition - Haven is entrenched in snow, and through a foggy  tavern window, he can see that the elf with cold hands is bartering secrets in exchange for coin:<br/>Soldiers and scullery maids slip her silver that she has no want for, in light of her position:<br/>He's not entirely sure if he approves.</p><p>She laughs and takes a drink; his feet start moving of their own accord.</p><p>A series of interactions between El'una and Solas leading up to their parting at the end of Trespasser.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Spit and Stones

**Author's Note:**

> Sheds a bit of light on El'una Lavellan, who she is, what makes her tick, and why she enjoys taking money from strangers more than anything.
> 
> I always imagined my Lavellan to be someone who -as a woman in her thirties- has a considerable amount of life experience under her belt; she is very much an optimist and an idealist, but has always lived under a considerable amount of expectation, being The First of her clan - there isn't much room to be naive or uninformed when you live a life such as hers.

She is on her feet, but clearly unsteady, moving with the gait of someone whose limbs and legs had fought valiantly, but lost the battle against atrophy. Despite this, she doesn’t lean on the simple staff that he is amused to see in her hand; convincing the Seeker to let her carry it could not have been a simple task. But there is little time to muse on the methods this elf used to win herself a weapon; there is a tear in the veil that needs attending.

For the first time in his life he hears the peculiar metallic chiming that he soon discovers follows this elf everywhere; disturbed chains and charms ring together when long fingers wrap around a clothed wrist and lift it towards the rift. At the connection, he feels the ancient magic of the mark stir against his own brand of magic; the sensation is not unfamiliar. Over the past days tending to the elf, his magic and the magic of the mark have become acquainted; it knows him, recognizes him for what he is.

That does not mean it belongs to him.

He bids her to act quickly, his voice drowning in the dense atmosphere that encircles the rift. She is a mage, and he is pleased when she understands what he intends her to do; he feels her magic - odd and strangely stunted like all magic in this time - rise to the occasion and instinct wins over doubt. Fingers, silhouetted against the acidic backdrop of green, curl and tendons flex under his grip as she uses the magic of his orb to suppress the rift into nothingness.

As the shrieking green void collapses on itself, the air noticeably changes; everything nearby feels and looks lighter and sound travels properly again. She snarls with exertion and with a final, decisive crack that breaks the air, it is over and she is on her knees in the snow, her wrist torn from his grasp and clutched under her opposite arm as she pants heavily as if she were in pain. He realizes that she probably is: Life here is delicate and not built for this kind of magic. It is a wonder that she even lived to make it this far; being able to control the mark at all is indeed something of note.

Although crippled it is only momentary, for she rises to her feet and unfolds her arm, flexing her fingers and staring at the green mutilation on her palm with a stone-faced expression. “How did I - ?” She asks, with a bastardized accent symptomatic of one who speaks elven fluently, but not often. “What did you do?” She looks over to him expectantly, green shafts of light reflecting upon her face.

In waking, as she was in sleep, this woman is no different to his eyes than any other “Dalish” elf he’s encountered. She is of similar height and build as her kin, and across her face is etched the vallaslin he recognizes as Mythal’s. It would be untrue to say that he didn’t feel some relief at the fact that his orb fell into the hands of an elf, but it would also be untrue to say that he wasn’t wary regardless: up until now, he has been given few reasons to think highly of the Dalish, and now that she is conscious and active, he is slightly disappointed to see that there is nothing obvious that sets her apart from the rest: She is little more than another fumbling life in this damaged world that happened to be in the wrong place and the wrong time. But… he needs to remain close to her, so he smiles and insists that the credit for unlocking the power in her hand is hers alone.

She stares at him, greasy, soot streaked brown hair whipping about her dirty face, and he gets the distinct impression from her hollow look that she is not entirely convinced. “Happy to see that it’s more than just a garish torch for dark spaces.” She notes, eyes falling back to her palm. She is silent, and he knows that she is purposefully calling his bluff: She doesn’t seem to feel the need to blunderingly demand an explanation when she knows that she is owed one.

So he explains. Carefully placing what he knows to be fact under the guise of well intentioned theory.

At this, the Seeker who had been watching them converse with an air of dignified contempt, steps forward, leaping on the possibility that the massive breach could also be dealt with in the same manner that the smaller rift had been.

The elven woman glances at the swirling, green horror in the sky and back to himself and the Seeker. He hears her laugh nervously for the first time. “I’m sorry, but do either of you have any idea what that felt like?” She tamps down some snow under the butt of her staff, fidgeting restlessly as she speaks. “Not good. It didn’t feel good. It hurt.” She gestures with her staff at the empty space in the air where there was a rift not so long ago. “That one was comparatively small next to that.” She emphasizes, now poking her staff into the sky at the breach. “I suppose you’d just shove me at it, have me wiggle my fingers and hope that I don’t burn up from the inside?” The Seeker lifts a hand and moves to speak, but the elf continues at a hurried pace, firmly planting her staff into the snow and pointing a finger at the Seeker. “It’s my turn.” She warns, and he notes the colour rising in Cassandra’s cheeks; when was the last time she had her authority questioned? By a mage of all people? “I don’t even know what that is.” He hears the elf muttering to herself angrily as she begins rifling around in one of the assortment of pouches on her belt. After a moment she curses and looks up. “Of course you’ve taken everything.” She jabs at the Seeker. “Has anyone a river stone or a crystal of some sort?”

The dwarf known as Varric, silent up until this point, shrugs and shakes his head. The elf looks to him now and he expresses his sorrow that he cannot contribute. She then looks to Cassandra and says. “You’ve a pocket stone, yes? In your travelling kit?” She stretches her palm out expectantly.

“I don’t see how -” The Seeker begins.

“You will.” The elf promises, understandably betraying that she has grown short on patience; it is clear that she has been told very little about what has happened, let alone left to her own devices as a mage to determine the seriousness of the breach.

The small, abrasive brick is passed with a disapproving glare that the elf ignores. She is already rubbing the stone between her fingertips, warming it, bleeding magic into it and whispering quietly; he cannot hear what she is saying, and for all he knows she is still ranting inaudibly. With her other hand she is tugging at one of the multitudes of coloured patchwork that make up her tattered skirts, fingers easing woven thread apart on a scrap of tattered blue damask. A thread breaks free and she holds it up in front of her face as she wraps it around the stone a number of times and pulls a knot tight.

All three of them watch in silence as she rubs the stone between her thumb and forefinger once more before spitting generously over it, coating it in saliva. Looking over her shoulders only briefly, she transfers the stone into the palm of her left hand where it bathes in the light of the mark. She hoists the stone up on the length of thread fastened to it and it dangles a short distance from the mark on her hand, still and inert.

She is hunched over and focused on the makeshift pendulum, still speaking quietly to it. She remains like this for a time, only breaking her focus for as long as it takes to hastily wipe her hand clean using the filthy fabric of her skirts.

He wonders what this is, this ritual she appears to be intently focused on. If it’s magic, it’s unlike any he’s seen before. He makes a remark to that effect, and though her eyes lift to meet his for a moment, they quickly return to their place of concentration on the stone, and her muttering never ceases. The stone is now swinging quite animatedly towards the breach, though the hand holding it is completely still. It builds up an unnatural pace as it swings upwards, tugging at the string that binds it.

The elf does not seem at all bothered by this.

All at once, there is a very brief burst of flame as the thread clenched in her fingers evaporates, leaving nothing but smoke in its wake. She emits a cry of surprise, but immediately stoops to pick up the pocket stone from the snow. “For a Circle mage, I can see how that seemed odd: That was real magic. Old magic.” She addresses him, but passes the stone back to Cassandra. “There’s little need for bound tomes and boisterous extravagance for every small thing that calls for a bit of magic.” Her lips curve in the faintest of smiles.

“I am not of the Circle.” He retorts. “Only a curious traveler. What did this magic tell you?”

“Breach indeed.” The elf sighs, pulling her staff free from the snow. “The veil is not merely thin; it is pierced cleanly through. The spirits up there number in the hundreds.” She glances skyward again, and her face is bathed in green. She lifts a hand and pensively runs her fingers over the lower part of her face, and he can practically see the wheels in her mind turning. “It operates the same as the rift from minutes earlier, but it is massive in size.” She lets go of her chin and looks at her hand again, “Whatever this is, it seems to be intrinsically tied to either the veil, or what lays beyond it. I don’t know enough about any of this to tell which. Regardless, it seems that both of you are right: This mark appears to be capable of manipulating and affecting these tears in the veil.”

  
“It seems you hold the key to our salvation.” He answers encouragingly. For the first time he is intrigued by the elf and how she is handling things: He may not possess the power of the orb, but at this point it is imperative that he at least remain party to the events that unfold around the person who does.

It is the dwarf’s turn to scoff now, and he does so with the world-weariness of one far beyond his years; he has not had the opportunity to speak at length with Varric, but it is abundantly clear that the dwarf has seen much in his time. He keeps this in mind as the dwarf closes the distance between himself and the elf and extends a hand in introduction.

There is no hesitation in her reaction as she instantly reaches forward and clasps hands with Varric, though she does express curiosity as to what in particular brings him to this place. When she takes a wild guess that he’s with the Chantry, he cannot help but interject with a clipped burst of laughter: For the short time he’s occupied Haven following the explosion at the Conclave, there have been a number of mysteries laid before him; the Chantry as an institution is something completely foreign to him, but since surrendering his staff to the guards at the gates, it was made abundantly clear to him that those who served the Chantry and the Maker were cut from a very different cloth than the sort that Varric’s design was created from.

On the night of the explosion, while fear, panic, and despair permeated the hearts of all in the camp, he found Varric in The Singing Maiden, well into his cups and shaking his head. “I thought I’d seen it all.” The dwarf slurred when Solas approached. “I didn’t think anything could get worse than Kirkwall.” He took a long drink and sighed. “Just more shit on top of more shit. You know, I ought to start advertising myself as a clairvoyant for disasters; Varric Tethras - wherever he shows up, there’s bound to be casualties!” He waves a hand through the air, visualizing it. The hand falls limply to the bar when Solas does not react. “Ah come on Chuckles, it was supposed to be a joke!”

It should be obvious to anyone that the dwarf was not Chantry cloth… shouldn’t it?

“Was that a serious question?” He finds himself asking, and the elf turns her face to his, though her expression is quite unreadable as Varric begins arguing with the Seeker about whether or not he is in fact still considered a prisoner.

“Well at least now I don’t feel completely singled out.” The elf quips. “It’s good to meet you.”

He considers warning her otherwise, but thinks better of it, only realizing after Varric and the Seeker begin arguing anew that he missed the elf’s introduction to the dwarf. When Cassandra throws her hands up and stalks away from Varric, he takes the opportunity to captivate the attention of the elven woman. She places her staff over her shoulder and renders her full attention to him as he introduces himself (with some unbidden help from Varric, who helpfully implies that the elf lives due to Solas’ aid.)

The elf surveys him calmly and says, “You certainly seem to know a lot about the veil for one with a blank face.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You mentioned that you’re a traveler and not a Circle mage. Odd that a clan would keep a bare-faced mage around.” She observes. “Forgive me, though. I’m getting ahead of myself, as I am told I am always wont to do.” Amber coloured eyes warm and lift for the first time, and she smiles genuinely, holding out her hand as Varric did. Solas clasps his own hand around hers and is slightly taken aback at how frighteningly cold her palm is against his. “El’una, First of Clan Lavellan.” She states, and he detects an inviting sense of confidence in the voice of this woman; perhaps a bit more or less than ten years his junior, she offers him another direct smile before breaking contact.

“He is no Dalish.” The Seeker chimes in. “He is an apostate, like you.”

“I’ve yet to meet another mage of any pedigree that has knowledge like this man does.” El’una remarks rather briskly. “I care little about what the Chantry defines him as: We are all apostates in your eyes. I only wish to know how our friend came to know such secrets.” Her voice drops and her eyes rake over him perceptively as she speaks the final words.

Interesting.

Again he mixes the truth in with convenient and easy to believe falsehoods; he is far from a humble traveller, but El’una’s own admittance that she has met no one like him makes it easy for her to accept what he claims to be true.

“I get the impression that we can learn much from each other.” She decides once he is finished. “Do you know much of the Dalish, then?” She inquires, shifting her stance and chiming again slightly.

He cannot help but return the curious gaze he has been treated with since this conversation started. He supposes that a newly opened breach could spawn a swarm of horrors all around them and she would ignore every single foe until she was finished with him.

“I’ve had my share of interactions with your people.” He answers.

“We are not so bad as they suppose.” She says, waving a hand in Cassandra’s general direction, presumably meaning humans by “they”. “And it is good to know that I am not the only one of my kind in this place. I can’t imagine how terrible that would be.”

Yes. Terrible.


	2. Ale and Asking

The comforting sound of snow crunching under his feet punctuates and gives weight to the still, crisp silence of the cold mountain air. With each pace nearer to Haven, the silence is further muddled by the sounds of civilization; the smith works late into the night, and on a night as cold as this, many seem to have taken to gathering around small fires dispersed throughout the camp for both warmth and merriment. These… people accepted this fate without complaint that he could see; Haven was too small to provide shelter to so many, but the frigid nights appeared to do little to quell the growing sense of camaraderie that ruled the place from a time before he had ever sought to dwell here.

Laughter trails between the small cottages and huts on his path back to the roof that the Divine’s Hands were kind enough to offer him - an outwardly altruistic gesture, but one that has not for a moment tricked him into a false sense of security; an _apostate_ is easier to keep track of if he is lodged in solitude, rather than among a city of a hundred tents. Nevertheless, he accepted the lodgings gracefully and gave away no impression that he was anything more than a particularly eccentric wandering elf.

Smoke is billowing from the stack of The Singing Maiden, and the building is apparently doing all it can to live up to its namesake; its windows splash a warm orange glow into the blue and white surrounding it, and the very same glow catches on the snow it touches and makes it sparkle invitingly. A bard is singing a song, and even through the wooden doors he can hear the telltale rabble of many people deep in their cups; clapping, cheer, boisterous laughter - it would appear that the light is not the only source of warmth within the tavern.

He is about to retreat into his cottage; his hand is pressed flat against the door and he is turning away when a movement in the window of the tavern gives him pause.

It’s her - El’una - the elf with the cold hands and Mythal’s markings. She’s seated at a table next to a window of the tavern that is in view of his cottage, carrying on a conversation with someone seated across from her. It’s a dimmer in her corner of the tavern, but he can see well enough to tell that they both appear to be looking down at something on the surface of the table. The woman sitting across from her leans on her elbow and twirls a strand of her hair around a finger as she stares pensively at whatever is on the table for a moment before she finally sits back and points at something on the surface he cannot see.

 _This one,_ spell her lips and he watches El’una look up at the woman from under her brows.

 _Are you sure?_ Are the words she is saying; there is a slight smirk and a mischievous nature in her low gaze. The woman nods and El’una moves something on the table. The woman; a scout by the looks of it, searches El’una’s face expectantly.

El’una leans forward suddenly, her expression of coy mystery dissolving into an open laugh. He watches as she reaches across the table and comfortingly touches the wrist of the woman who is looking more and more uncertain with each passing moment. The elf reaches up with her other hand and a glint of green refracts through the window and dances on the snow as El'una tucks a wayward strand of her own hair aside.

 _There is little to fear from a devil who is upside down, s_ he reassures the woman and he finds it strange how easy it is to understand her, despite the glass and walls that separate them; lips are simple enough to read, but the silence of the perceived conversation is much more telling than anything: He is undistracted by the sound of words, because those can be twisted to have any meaning. Instead he takes note of the upwards curve of the mouth that offers them, the openness of the shoulders that face her counterpart, and the simple offer of physical contact; more than anything, she wants to quell this woman’s fears and he watches her continue trying. _There will be considerable change in the coming months_ , El’una says, her eyes dropping once more, _If there is anything in your life that is currently pressing you to feel bound, I would advise being mindful of it in the near future: You have been presented with the tools to break your chains; it's up to you to decide how you'll use them, when, and how._

_Ah. Card turning._

The woman’s mouth opens and closes and she pulls herself away from El’una’s friendly touch with wide eyes.

 _I never said… I didn’t… How did… how did you know?_   She stammers, reaching into her pocket.

 _I didn’t, and I don’t want to,_  El’una offers with a smile. She leans back into her seat and reaches for whatever it is she’s drinking. _You didn’t come to me for a solution to your problem, Tess. You came to me for a reading; I have no need of the details, just a silver._

The woman, Tess, shakes her head, still looking stunned as she places her payment on the table before El’una and stands.

 _Crazy, that is, s_ he remarks. _But… I thank you again, Herald._

Fluttering eyelids that close for a little longer than a typical blink would are the only giveaway of annoyance as El’una tilts her head and waves as the scout disappears out of the frame of the window.

He realizes then that his fingers are prickling with cold and that he has been holding them flat against the frost covered door for some time now; he pulls his hand away and a handprint has thawed into the silvery sheen covering the wood. His breath clouds around his face as he looks over his shoulder again before he goes inside.

She’s staring at him. Through the window and… through him? It is a disconcerting look that is made no less confounding by the same mysterious pull at her lips she had treated the scout to earlier.

Holding his gaze, he notes that her hand is moving over the table in a calculated sweeping motion, though she is doing little to keep track of her actions. Fingers dance lightly over something he cannot see, and with a green backdrop granted suddenly, and a devilish grin, there is a card slapped up against the glass facing him.

It is too dark to see the face of it, and she seems to realize this with some irritation as she slides the card back into her grip and looks at it herself. Immediately an eyebrow raises and she looks more impressed than anything. She shrugs, turns from the window and returns to her drink, apparently glad to be free of any more clients.

It is impossible to ignore: The curiosity, that is.

He opens the door only enough to slip his staff inside before closing it behind him and wandering across the frozen carpet between him and The Singing Maiden - a decision that his feet appear to have made for him, but not one that he takes issue with: In the short time he has walked this world, the elf with the cold hands has demonstrated itself to be a curious entity: When he asked her what she was laughing at to herself on the road days previously, she responded with, “Something very funny that happened a long, long time ago,” looked at him with her odd, penetrative gaze, and then wandered on, still chuckling slightly. Shortly after that, she’d disappeared at the crossroads; he himself had seen her before the disappearance, haggling over goods from the merchant, and the Seeker had sworn she had seen her just after that speaking to a refugee. It wasn’t until a child ran headlong into his legs and asked, “you’re looking for the feather-girl too, yeah?” That it became clear that the elf with the cold hands had taken a break from hunting down Templars and violent mages to play a game of hide and seek.

“You’re supposed to let the little ones find me.” She scolded politely, hanging upside down from a limb belonging to the tree he found her in, not far from the camp. “Blankets and ram meat are only going to go so far: Wee ones could use a bit of hope too, wouldn’t you agree?” Her upside down eyes blinked at him slowly: Stared through him again, while her dark hair hung around her face and reached towards the ground. Then she loosened her legs and plummeted heavily from the tree, landing on her back on the grassy earth below, jangling like a weighty coin purse, due to all the oddities she carried on her person.

Intriguing.

She did not carry the same guarded, haughty energy that the Dalish he had encountered possessed. Nor did she possess the fearful distrust that was common in the city elves he had met. In fact, when asked what her opinions regarding her purpose in life were; where she might end up, what she hypothesized she may be destined for, her answer caught him off guard. “Not sure, really. Can’t ever be, can I? I’m just… floating.” The statement was tied off neatly with a confident and uncomplicated smile.  

He stands next to her table now, and she sits comfortably in her seat, her feet propped on the chair across from her. There is no surprise on her face at his appearance.

“Never met a fella the window trick didn’t work on.” She notes, taking a drink.

“It would appear that you are well acquainted with your craft.” He responds, eyes lingering on the small pile of silver stacked before her on the table amongst scattered cards. “Indulge me, Herald; why take coin from these people when you will never want for anything so long as you remain pliant to the will of the Divine’s Hands?”

“More curious about that than what the cards had to say about you?” She asks, “Hmmm… that’s new. I would be very curious, were I you. But then… I’ve seen the card and you haven’t.”

There is something that is remarkably feline in the slow, dark drawl of her words. Her rather pointy teeth revealed to him in a small smile do little to quell the persistence of the comparison.

“I’m afraid I haven’t any coin to offer you.”

“It isn’t about the coin.” She says, shaking her head; candlelight catches on the sparkling flecks of… whatever it is that is littered in her hair. “It is about the exchange itself. So sit, Strange Solas, and we will begin our transaction.”

He gets the impression that the moniker is not delivered with the intention to insult, but rather to endear. He lets it slide; he is aware that - in this world especially - yes, he is very strange.

“I don’t demand coin in exchange for my skills. Only payment.” She begins, sweeping the cards into her hands that are adorned with all manner of rings. “To sit in a tavern or a public space alone and share the fleeting passage of time with other people is the transaction. The coin is an added benefit; I ask for interaction; in exchange I offer a service. Most leave me coin. Others leave me small tokens or nothing at all. Regardless, I do my work well, and I am well rewarded for it.”

“You mean to tell me that you, from what I have witnessed; a talented user of magic, are being utilized by your people as nothing more than a common peddler on the streets of cities and towns you pass through?”

She makes a face, swaps the cards around in her hands, takes another drink.

“If I am?” She inquires, “You would be amazed what people are willing to tell you when you can give them something they cannot obtain themselves: To be someone who is willing and able to actually see them: There is an element of mystery to what I do and who I am that indulges those I serve to part with much more than coin.”

It is his turn to smirk knowingly now, “Perhaps. But only insofar as people are willing to believe in the futures that you spin for them from paper and ink.”

The low smile again; devilish somehow; the expression implies that there is much that she knows that she willfully chooses not to impart.

“Is that skepticism I am detecting? ” Carefully, she fans the cards face down across the table with practiced fingers; they are all perfectly aligned and equidistant… not a single card is out of place.

“You’ve not answered my question.” He counters.

“You have qualms with my taking coin from soldiers and scullery maids?” She is not confrontational in tone, but she does sit slightly straighter, and her arms cross over her chest, the fingers of her green hand tapping against the flesh of her opposite bicep.

“If you ask for it from them, it would be difficult not to take issue.” He explains, “If you were to visit Leliana and request a gilded bed frame and a twelve course meal, there is no doubt you would receive them both by sunset. You were a prisoner, but presently you are a rallying point. The Seeker and the Left Hand are well acquainted with the fact that they require you in order to seal the breach in the sky - much as they are aware that they require me for the same reason. Soldiers and scullery maids, however, are viewed as replaceable by those who collect them: The coin these people slip you is probably a portion of what little they have. It does not behoove you to take it.”

She unfolds her arms and leans her elbow on the table, cradling her face in her hand as her eyes sweep over him.

“You’ve not asked for a thing in your life, have you?” She observes, eyes still focused on him with a glazed looking sense of familiarity that is… well, too familiar, truth be told. “At least… not gladly. I daresay, I don’t even require a card to speak to your past, Strange Solas: Asking requires vulnerability - it requires accepting the fact that people may say ‘no’ to your request. It may also mean that they can lead you astray or betray you or fail you in some other way. People can hurt you when you ask, so rather than give them the choice to say ‘no,’ you circumvent the entire process and commit yourself to solving your own problems, finding your own answers and way.” She closes her eyes in her tangent, her lips curve and he can feel the current of her magic, as welcoming and unprejudiced as it has been since the day he met her. “The only reasonable conclusion that can be drawn is that you have asked before, and it ended disastrously for you.” Her eyes flick open. “I asked for directions to an inn once in Denerim and had the contents of a chamber pot thrown at me: Asking is hard when people are free to choose to throw shit in your face.” She admits, shrugging and signalling the barmaid for a round of drinks, her hand almost immediately snapping up to conceal a sharp intake of breath as her eyes widen and her shoulders roll forward. “Oh!I got so caught up in chattering and I should’ve asked you: They have this absolutely wonderful honey ale here and I ordered one for each of us without even thinking. Is… will that be alright? I suppose I just assumed you were thirsty too… task-driven mind will be the death of me...” She mutters lamely at the end.

He feels his eyes narrow slightly as the bridge of her nose goes ever so slightly red in the light of the dim corner and she appears to display the telltale signs of someone who is distinctly flustered: Something he has not seen from the elf with the cold hands before this moment. Her eyes wander restlessly over the table and her surroundings, she clicks her teeth together while she waits for him to answer and her feet are rapidly withdrawn from the chair next to him.

Stranger than her red cheeks, is the realization that this is a side of the cold handed elf that he likes considerably: She is friendly and easygoing, but she has proven many a time since their meeting that she is a perceptive and focused individual. For as long as he’s known her, this has been the sole time she has ever lost handle of her light, playfully calm demeanour.

“Consider the round my payment for services rendered.” He tells her, now smiling himself.

It starts with a small chuckle, which, inflated by its own importance, transforms into a giggle which abruptly grows into a fully blown guffaw, and soon her shoulders are shaking, and her ears are red and her arms are wrapped around herself as she doubles over in her seat, eyes clenched shut as she tries to pull herself together.

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry.” She finally pants, “It’s just… oh. I apologize. That was incredibly strange and a bit awkward, wasn’t it? But… funny.”

He blinks at her.

_What?_

With each word that falls from her mouth, she paints herself a brighter colour within a landscape that is entirely composed of bland grays and whites. She is vibrant, he decides. Where all life he has encountered in this world appears to slog through life with a strange sense of overhanging misery and dulled sensation, she seems to -  in her own admittedly different way -  possess the capacity to be interesting.

She collects herself and the freshly poured ale the barmaid has dropped off and returns her feet to the chair next to him.

“Right.” She says. “I accept your payment, Solas. But before you choose your card, let me explain why I am happy to take coin from the scullery maids and soldiers.” She clears her throat and leans forward, her eyes gleaming and her smile wide.

“Because they choose to give it to me.” She says, as though it is the deepest and most valuable secret in the world. “I hold answers to their questions; when will I find true love? How can I become rich? Why is my healthy sow giving sour milk? I don’t ask about the questions and I don’t go digging - past, present, or future - that’s as far as it goes. That’s all I want to know.” She waves her hands over the cards. “I’ve been accused of trickery on more than one occasion, but there is real magic to this craft: I am not being paid to weave fanciful romances for blushing maidens. I am seeing the path the maiden walks; I am telling her where she has been, where she is, and where she will go, but I do not deign to tell her how any chronological situation will come to pass.” She pauses and drinks, dabbing her mouth with the edge of her scarf. “If I were to say to the blushing maiden who searches for love, ‘it is simple my dear; Glendrick on the end of the road has been smitten with you since the pair of you were children. You will find true love and happiness in his arms,’ then I would be removing all of the fair maiden’s choice in the matter, wouldn’t you agree? She’d bustle away from the square, and straight into Glendrick’s bed and she wouldn’t have learned a thing and our business twixt each other would have been for naught.”

She outstretches a pair of empty, open hands over the table towards him.

“Here,” She says, “Instead of all the answers, have something better: Have some hope.” Her hand snaps the cards up in a stack, and she shuffles them with a level of dexterity and slight of hand that heavily implies that she uses magic to do it. Or... perhaps she's just very practiced. Regardless, they share a moment of silence that is broken only by the riffled slapping of the cards as they are shuffled. "Now you." She says, pinching the deck together neatly and holding them out. He accepts them and feels their weight sink into his palm; the thin, well worn deck is surprisingly heavy, but there is no trace of magical energy about them; as he observed earlier, they are naught but ink and paper.

She observes, as he separates and replaces the cards with fingers that are by no means clumsy. 

"Three stacks, if you would. Can be of any thickness or drawn from any part of the deck." 

He obeys, and once he his split the deck in three, she points to the middle stack, "Top, bottom, or middle?"

"Top."

She points to the other two and allows him to make his selection before re-stacking the cards in the order he requested and once again sweeping them across the table in a perfectly symmetrical fan. 

"If you would be so kind as to choose a card now." She instructs, taking a drink. He does the same; she was right - the ale is good. "Take your time - try not to think about it too hard, but don't choose wantonly either: Let the card speak to you." 

He stares at the table and the choices before him; each is just as nondescript as the next. The backs of the cards all bear the same faded, sweeping design composed of what look to be some sort of roots and vines. 

Eventually, he repeats the same motion as Tess did earlier; with his index finger, he chooses a card and slides it free from the rest. 

"Well, flip it then." El'una prompts, looking to be on the edge of her seat with excitement.

So he does.

A figure cloaked in black stares down at the ground at his feet with slumped shoulders and an innately broken air about him. Three bottles of wine lay on their sides at his feet, their contents pooling red around him, though there is two perfect and upright bottles behind him that seem to have escaped his notice.

"This is what my present holds? Spilled wine?" He taunts quietly.

"No." She hums, picking up her mug with both hands and drawing from it. "Never that simple." She sets the mug back down. "You know, most of the time the window trick gets me work. Doesn't often happen that the same card gets drawn twice." It is noted as a mere curiosity, but for an instant her brow presses down before she sits upright again. "Presently, Strange Solas, you have a problem. I haven't a clue what it is, and as I explained, I have no desire to know, but it is bountifully clear that you are weighed upon by something, just as this fellow is by his lost wine." She points at the red. "Keep in mind during any decision making processes - particularly emotional ones - that there is indeed more to your predicament than the empty bottles. No matter what may come, keep looking for the full ones. They're somewhere in your picture." She taps the bottles behind the despondent figure. "You are called to let go of the spilled bottles and seek the upright ones. Easier said than done sometimes." 

He is uncomfortable.

She is the same as always: Accepting, smiling slightly, nonjudgmental, and possibly slightly drunk.

"On the house; some extra, very secret, tavern-dwelling-card-turning knowledge," She taps her mug against his own and her teeth glint, "If you ever wish to talk, Strange Solas; you need only ask." 


	3. Ghosts and Tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A special, quiet moment spent between El'una and Solas some time after their kiss at Haven.   
> There is magic in morning stillness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once upon a time, back in 2008, I won a set of tickets (by writing!) to see Nine Inch Nails when they came through town for their Lights in The Sky tour. I went with my best friend at the time, and was utterly blown away by the stage-setup they had. 
> 
> Most memorably for me was when they played 28 Ghosts IV: An entirely instrumental piece, in front of a backdrop that was a projected image of a misty morning sanctuary; black stalks and reeds stretched out from the moving, shimmering water and mist floated across the surface. I was in a state of mind I hadn't experienced before this night, and before this song I was starting to feel anxiety and panic creep up on me. 
> 
> Suddenly this happened, and it was like that song and misty pond were all that existed in the world. 
> 
> To this day, the happiest places I see are things such as this; morning mist, still water broken by reeds, and thin golden sunlight. 
> 
> I couldn't think of anything more peaceful for Solas and El'una.

There is a soft chiming, accompanied by the subtle swish of skirts; the telltale preface of El’una’s arrival at his side. 

“For you,” She says, the two simple words still enough to give away her bastardized but unmistakably unique accent. She is holding out a steaming cup of what he can only assume is tea. “I’ve added honey and raspberry juice to hopefully take away some of the leafy taste.” She smiles kindly, not waiting for any recognition or praise before sitting on the grass next to him, careless of the morning dew that surely seeps through the varying swatches of fabric that makes up her skirts. “I know you dislike it, but there’s a chill in the air, and a cuppa tea imbibed at the start of the day with the right energies in mind is a simple bit of spellwork that can work in your favour.” 

He can’t help the understated snort of laughter, but he thanks her in elven regardless.

It’s a beautiful, halcyon morning on the Exalted Plains; The sun just rising up into the sky, casting a wan golden light over the small pond they camped next to that is momentarily glasslike in its stillness. Reeds and burnt skeletons of trees break the surface of the mirror-still surface, and a thick mist lingers above the water, dampening the harshness of the rising sun, but none of its beauty. There is a sound in the serenity of the scene that can not be heard; only felt. 

El’una, it seems, rarely speaks elven. She does so now however, her eyes trained on a solitary ripple spreading across the pond. The peace in her voice is impossible to miss and he has no urge to ask what she means by the carefully chosen endearment; it was neither directed towards, nor intended for him. No, it is the scene itself that she spoke so gently to. 

This particular morning is not the first time he has seen her so captured by nearly nothing: Certain unremarkable trees in the Emerald Graves catch the attention of the elf with the cold hands in much the same way, as had a windblown swath of grass on a hilltop in the Hinterlands. Each rare but undeniable instance of perfection earned a sentiment such as this; a loving gaze, and an admonition of affection, whispered with the vulnerable intimacy of a lover.  This distractible habit grew to give him some measure of peace when she was near him; she cared deeply about the easily overlooked intricacies life offered. He cannot say that he’s known her long, but there is a warmth in his heart left in the wake of her words. 

“There may even be a song if one listens in the right way.” She muses. “You feel the stillness?” She inquires, bundling the well-worn fabric of her skirts under her legs and pulling her knees to her chest. She blows softly on her own steaming mug of tea, her lips forming an idyllic ‘o’ shape.

“Yes.” He replies, and El’una tilts her head perceptively at his lack of further comment.

“Are you feeling alright?” She asks, eyes probing his face as her eyes are wont to probe most things they encounter. “You’re curiously hush this on the subject - I’m surprised you haven’t attempted to divine to me some well-versed philosophy behind what a sunrise truly is.” She laughs at her well-meaning jab, and though there is no breeze, a few wisps of her chestnut mane drift lazily about her face and shoulders as she smiles invitingly at him as… again, she is wont to do. “Not that I wouldn’t welcome the opportunity to hear your input on the matter.”

It is his turn to laugh now; a sleep-filled bark that gives away the best of him despite his true nature. “Thoughts come easily in the morning, lethallan. Words are often more elusive.” He explains; waking in the morning is a consuming endeavour for him. There is a comfort that he finds in Dreaming that is comparable to some sort of consolation in this confused, silent world. Rising from such consolation leaves him with a remorseful twinge in his gut upon waking, and he finds it difficult to focus intently on the reality that exists around him. 

He suspects she disguises what looks to be a bloom of colour in her cheeks as a delicate and premeditated sip from her mug. “Your voice falls pleasant on the ears so early in the day.” She murmurs, shutting her eyes as soon as the words leave her mouth, for it seems all of the confidence she possessed left with them. He watches her and is reminded of their first personal meeting at The Singing Maiden when she had behaved in this precise manner after mistakenly ordering a drink for him without asking: Her fingers immediately busied themselves; strands of hair were tucked behind ears, her scarf was pulled up a little higher around her neck, stray threads were tugged at and her throat was nervously cleared.

A warm feeling spreads from within him, up to his face and settles contentedly there as a smile, and he says, “As does yours.” 

Fingers instantly pause. El’una looks at Solas, self-deprecation written across typically confident features as if she fears that she will be met with a mocking sneer. Instead, her expression becomes one of surprise when she is met with only a rather tired, but genuine smile. 

He means it. He would not have said it if he didn’t. There is indeed something exceptional about their current setting, but he cannot help but wonder if it isn’t emphasized by the fact that she’s in it; that she notices and is bolstered by beautiful things easily overlooked by most. It occurs to him then that she is beautiful too. Like the rare and picturesque scenes that cause her to stop dead in her tracks, she is also an example of such things: An instance; a moment in time where fate has lined up in such a way as to cause balance in a most unimaginable way. The fact that she is so willing to see beauty in this tarnished world is demonstrative enough of the quality that he realizes most strongly drives this complicated warmth he finds around her: Hope.

For the first time since waking in this unintentional world, he feels valued - seen - by another in this place. Most confoundingly, she seems not to notice her unique influence over him, as if there is nothing especially unique about her actions and treatment of him. He supposes there isn’t, as he considers her pale fingers and maple coloured eyes.  After all, it had been in their first conversation that she admitted that it was her vocation in life to “see” people; why should he be any different?

She is leaning back on her marked hand, and unbidden, he feels his own fingertips snake over the soft expanse of grass between them until the constantly cool flesh of her fingers lays under his. There had been a mistake not so long ago; an encounter in the Fade within the memory of Haven.  A kiss - initiated by her and seized upon by him against his better judgement - there had been next to no discussion about it since; as if they both comprehended the recklessness of the action. 

The clarity of their situation seems to sweep over her all at once, and he feels her fingers move beneath his. Her breath flushes from her body in the guise of a very quiet, uncommonly nervous sounding, “ha” and he can’t find it within himself to blame her for the reaction: They are both obligated to something far bigger than themselves right now, and he himself had once remarked on her pronounced acuity when it came to focusing on the task at hand. Yet despite this reasoning, there is an eccentric demand within him to know why that stolen kiss was such a sin. What matter is there in a single kiss now? It is as though they have become a part of the silent music that rules this moment; the one that moments earlier El’una had praised: There is indeed a song, and magic is magic, after all. 

His hand tightens around hers and hers around his. He feels moist dirt push under his fingernails as his fingertips scrape against the soil and the distance between them seems to shrink - to be not alone in this nightmare… not alone.

There is a gasp and El’una jerks away from him; her hand is torn from his and she is on her feet, a broad, steaming stain spreading down the front of her clothing as she emits a wounded snarl that is complimented by a concerto of small metal charms and whirling skirts. A stream of profanity - elven for the most part - issues from her mouth and she aims a kick at the mug that has rolled away from her, her words becoming incomprehensible for a moment before she roars through clenched teeth, shattering the morning stillness as hot liquid continues to seep through layers of fabric and worries at her delicate skin. 

“El’una?” He ventures when she resumes some semblance of composure, albeit still steaming slightly and breathing heavily. 

The fortune teller straightens and takes another deep breath before speaking. “My apologies, Solas. You must think me simpleminded, standing before you, dripping with tea.” 

It was certainly a well-crafted performance, he decides, understanding completely now. He feels the corners of his mouth lift as he takes a sip of his own tea, noting that the honey and raspberry juice certainly do make it more palatable. Should he expect anything less than a grand performance from such a peculiar creature? She made it no secret that she was an artist of the street - indomitable focus indeed. 

He tilts his head to her and returns his gaze to the splendid and still pond, outwardly oblivious to the reasoning behind her machinations, he swallows more tea and stares at the serene view as though he hadn’t just witnessed the spectacle the elf with the cold hands allowed herself to become. 

“Beautiful.” He comments in the language of the People, for all intents and purposes, observing nothing more than the gentle drift of the morning mist. 


	4. Quarrel and Emerald

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slightly Solas Critical chapter.
> 
> I have a hard time imagining NOT taking issue with some of the comments he makes to other party members, because let's be honest with ourselves; he says some pretty awful things. 
> 
> This is my interpretation of how El'una would react to some of the aforementioned, awful things.

“If you wish to make amends for past transgressions, free the slaves of all races who live in Tevinter today.”

El’una halts, her toes digging into the mossy floor beneath her. Her brow furrows at the comment Solas has just uttered. She’s heading up the group, traversing the thickly knotted roots and treacherous gaps that are veiled with overgrowth in the lush forest of the Emerald Graves - it’s easy to get lost here, but even easier to miss a step and find oneself with a broken ankle or worse.

So she prods along the path, her staff held out before her as she pokes a safe route through the densest part of the woods.

That doesn’t mean she isn’t listening to the conversation between Solas and Dorian that has been unfolding behind her for the past five minutes.

The silence is tangible in its discomfort. The still, ancient air of the forest tingles with the proud aura of Solas’ audacity and the dignified bemusement it has wrought from Dorian.

“I… I don’t know that I can do that.” The magister’s son murmurs.

“Then how sorry are you?” Solas quips.

El’una frowns, her shoulders round up with tension as she processes what she just heard.

_Stay out of it. This is between the two of them, it’s probably best to let them work it out. They’ve come this far, haven’t they? Just… don’t say anything._

“That was uncharacteristically ignorant.” She observes out loud.

She turns around to face the quarrelling mages. She twists the butt of her staff into the forest floor and there is a sound of moss being tugged and torn under it. Dorian looks like he’s been slapped, and Solas doesn’t look nearly as smug as she anticipated he would from the tone of his voice.

“Danger nearby?” Blackwall suggests from behind them both, noting El’una’s pause and drawing his blade a few inches from its sheathe.

“Danger?” She repeats. “No. No.” Her gaze drifts back to Solas. “I apologize, I simply couldn’t help myself: I just… what did you mean by that, Solas?” She could just drop it and take it up with Solas at Skyhold later but she’s so completely thrown off by his choice of words at the moment that her curiosity overwhelms her.

“Which part strikes you as the most uncharacteristic, El’una?” He ventures, “My suggestion that our humble friend actually do something about the present rather than making uninvolved, but convenient concessions for the actions of dead men? Or perhaps the question that followed his answer?”

El’una glances sidelong at Dorian; she aspires to avoid giving the impression that she’s about to start talking about him as if he isn’t standing right in front of her.

“I take no issue with what was said.” Are the words she decides upon finally. “Only the reasoning behind it. The fact that you would so callously attack a companion you travel with is a matter that is between yourself and Dorian, so I will leave it that way.” She flexes her fingers around her staff; adjusts her grip. “I would only like to understand how you managed to arrive at the justification that one man ought to carry the weight of an entire nation’s sins. Further, I would like to understand how his transparent and honest answer makes him a dishonest man, by your definition.”

“In a world where the balance of power is held by those who are in power, apathy means only death to those below.” Solas states.

“Ah yes, how foolish of me to overlook that simple fact.” Dorian snaps. “Of course it makes complete sense for me to blast my way through the Magisterium and hold a blade to the Archon’s throat until I get my way. Sound reasoning. A wonder someone hasn’t thought of it before.”

“To immediately assume that a course of action so brashly undertaken is what I was implying serves only to emphasize my point: It is diplomatically convenient for you, a privileged Altus mage, to seize upon every opportunity to apologize to an elf for the fate that befell their race ages ago. By admitting that the decadence of the Imperium is built on the rape and enslavement of elvhen culture, you allow yourself to feel guilt and abhorrence for the actions of men who are long dead, yet you forget that you are making amends to elves who are living.” Solas counters. “It is simple to make reparations on behalf of dead men and tell yourself that doing so much is good enough.”

“Not sure I recall the last time a dead man apologized for anything. If it must be said, it only makes sense that someone living says it.” El’una interjects. “But in all fairness, when was the last time you attempted liberating all of the slaves from Tevinter?”

Something darkens behind his eyes, and El’una is slightly taken aback.

_Mystery upon mystery from Strange Solas, it seems._

“That isn’t to say that it can’t be done. Slavery is  a repugnant reality and I have no love nor support for it.” She continues. “I only consider it unfair to boil Dorian’s attempt to reach out to you down to something as cavalier and meaningless as a politically spurred bloviation.”

“You agree with him then?” Solas inquires softly. There is a notable chill around the pair of them but it does not cow El’una’s spirit. As far as she’s concerned, if Solas wants to be upset, he’s more than welcome to it; backing down on her values now is a compromise that isn’t worth the outcome.

“I do, yes.” She states in a manner that implies her commitment. She has spoken to Dorian at length about the structure of slavery in Tevinter, and while she will never find the concept anything but deplorable, she was able to see things from a different perspective. Slavery is not ideal, but in its own twisted way, it considers the lives of those living under it: Not all slave owners are good, but not all slave owners are cruel and evil to their charges either. “I’m not saying that slavery is beneficial, or agreeable, I’m only saying that it is beyond ludicrous to expect one man to single handedly rework a political system that has been in place for so long... particularly one littered with as many tricks, traps and dangers as the Imperium.

“Change will come. I deeply believe that the issue of slavery is one that will be addressed within our lifetime, and I also deeply believe in the genuine remorse of Dorian’s words: He may be unable to do anything about it right this moment, but his words were offered to you from a place of kindness, not snobbery.” El’una turns around and begins prodding along the path once more. “We can stand here and argue the point all day, but freeing all of the slaves isn’t going to do _anybody_ any good if we can’t remain focused on the task at hand.” She waves her glowing green hand behind her, wiggling her fingers; a silent reminder of what lays at stake.

They carry on through the forest, all of them silent now, each perhaps a bit perturbed by what just transpired. El’una certainly is. She remains troubled as she traces a path through the woods, disquieted by Solas’ reaction to Dorian’s apology. Solas who had always been indulging and candid with her when they spoke privately had verbally lashed out at Dorian. What ired her more than anything was that his comment was not merely an off-the-cuff emotional fumble; it was a deliberate jab said with the intent to embarrass and devalue.

It was _cruel_.

She thinks of the darkness his features took on when she implied that he was just as guilty of not freeing slaves, and she works to suppress a shudder: He’s never spoken to her like that, but the demonstration that she just witnessed certainly suggested that he had no qualms doling out such blatant disdain for a person if pushed.

Liking a person is one thing, and El’una certainly enjoys Solas’ company; he is eccentric and odd, but also calm and -up until now- levelheaded. But as she pushes on, she grapples with her own belief that if a person is lovely towards you, but treats other people poorly, perhaps they are not so lovely after all.

Voices up ahead carry to her ears and she comes to another halt, listening intently for a moment before wrapping her fingers around the hilt of the sword slung across her back. It hisses quietly as she removes it from its sheath, and the air around her expands and warms as she trickles magical energy into the blade imbued with runes. She motions north-west with the head of her staff.

“Red templars up ahead.” She whispers, and she is grateful for the distraction of the impending fight.

Sometimes thinking is just… too loud.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	5. Of Dreams and Dissent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Removed from Endless Possibilities and completely overhauled. How exciting!

Clumsy and unlearned fingers drag over harsh strings that cut into the soft pads of flesh at their tips. She rolls her neck in a circular motion and the cracking sound that accompanies the movement is incontrovertible evidence of her determination to get this damned instrument down.

Despite the pressing nature of the Inquisition’s plight, there are indeed days where there is little to be done; no paperwork to catch up on, no meetings to have, no prisoners to judge and no call to venture away from the fortress. Finding ways to keep oneself occupied during days such as these became the only real priority, and so, after having more than a few ales with Maryden at the tavern the other night, El’una had decided to pick up the lute; mastering a musical instrument had always been a goal of hers; music inspires, drives, provides comfort and solace, or awakens deep passions within people… being able to possess such a talent has its uses.

She sucks on her sore fingertips for a moment, ignoring the small dark spots that have appeared under the flesh of some of them. She flexes her left hand and tries again; the simple progression of chords the bard had taken the time to explain to her the other night. They’re sounding better, she decides. The sounds she draws still lack the conviction and impact that Maryden’s practiced hands can coax out of the lute, but they are not nearly as muted and inconsistent as previous attempts have been.

“You’re getting better.” Solas notes from the other side of the room, breaking her from her assessment. “Each note sounds cleaner than the last.”

She looks up, smiling wryly at his back. “You really must get out of my head; I had been thinking the exact same thing.”

He turns to face her, paintbrush drifting to his side. She finds herself once again captured by him; there is a familiar aura of calm approachability in the space around him, and her eyes revel in the expanse of artfully structured bones and muscles that his rolled up sleeves expose. A small blue smudge is smeared across  the side of his nose and there is a very strong urge within her to close the space between them and kiss it. His lips quirk upwards at her small rebuke, and he shrugs only slightly.

“I’m unable to help it.” He retorts easily. “How often does one find another with whom connecting on such a level is as simple as drawing breath?”

She tilts her head and raises an eyebrow. “Never any end to the silken words eh, Strange Solas?” She jests plucking out a rather charming series of positive sounding notes from the lute.

“They are only as infinite as the gratification the mouth that speaks them receives whenever it touches your silken flesh.” He counters brazenly, the penetrative quality in his gaze informing El’una that like nearly everything else Solas encounters - in this arena - he knows exactly what he’s doing. “That is to say… yes; there is no end.”

A groan is pulled from her lips and she sharply strokes down on the strings of the lute, creating a jarring sound that perfectly encapsulates her frustration at this moment. “You remember that thing you said to me ages ago? After we just met? Something to the tune of being impressed by my ability to focus, and how fascinating it would be to see said focus dominated?”

“Yes.” Solas answers, looking more amused with each word that El’una speaks.

“Consider it dominated.” She fires back, setting the lute down next to her on the cushion of the settee. “However, be that as it may; there’s something I’d been meaning to get your thoughts on anyway.”

Solas holds his hands up in front of him, “If this has anything to do with Sera needing a mage to fill Ambassador Montilyet’s study with impenetrable bubbles, I’m afraid I must decline; I am not getting involved.”

El’una laughs, and then says, “Hang on. How did you know about that?”

“Sera talks in her sleep. Tent walls are thin: It does not take a genius to glean the intention behind, ‘ _Eugh, squicky mages_ ,’ ‘ _real soap is too poppy_ ,’ and, ‘ _baldy-mage is out, though. Too much stick up his arse_.’” At his last repetition of Sera’s sleep-talk, El’una claps a hand over her mouth to stifle the hoot of laughter that escapes. Solas shakes his head and moves to the table in the centre of the room to swish his brush through the jar of water set there.

“I’ll have to tell her to be a bit more careful in the future.” She manages to say finally. “But what I meant to discuss with you does involve sleep, in some form or another. Specifically dreams.”

“A topic I have yet to tire of.” Solas says, drying his brush on the scrap of fabric next to the jar of water. “What would you like to know?”

She feels her face stretch into a smile; for the ever-expanding list of things she’s come to love about this man, right near the top lingers, “ _Always Willing to Offer Knowledge._ ”

“You obviously have an understanding of the Fade that many would wish to possess, especially in terms of walking it during sleep. Of course the first time with me was Haven, and we’ve enjoyed a number of amazing experiences and adventures since then, but what I find myself wondering about is whether those things are as vivid and lucid as they are because I’m with you, or if instead they are due to the nature of the mark.”

“Both, perhaps.” Solas notes, rolling his brush in a deep mauve. “It would also hinge on any inherent connection to the Fade you possess, as well as your own discipline, which - as demonstrated - is quite solid.”

“That’s exactly it!” El’una pipes up, “The way you talk of the Fade, the knowledge you possess, and the things that you’ve shown me… I’ve always found it to be relatable.” She flips her legs off of the couch, her feet falling silent on the floor and another sort of absence of sound as well; she is not wearing her skirts or charms today; only a comfortable tunic and a pair of clean leggings. Her well-worn leather travelling belt is the only adornment on her being. It is strange, she decides, to be as physically quiet as she is today.

“Relatable?” He repeats, arching a brow, and something in his stance and voice makes El’una think that Solas is taken aback by this comment for some reason. Slightly thrown off by this, but no less curious, El’una expands on her statement.

“Well… yes. Think of it this way; I didn’t show much in the way of magical talent until quite late in my childhood, but despite that, I still heard things; the Dalish don’t adhere to Andrastian views of magic, but there’s still fear of that which we don’t understand; yes, the Fade is viewed as integral, but it is also taught that it’s a place filled with peril for those who don’t understand it, or treat it with care. For all the talk of using it, there’s just as much concern of possession, and dark things hiding in dreams.” She picks up the lute again, if only to have something to busy her fingers. “Nightmares and demons never bothered me as much as other people, but I wonder: Can anything be done for those who are bothered by them?”

“To an extent.” Solas answers, taking his paint laden brush to the wall and turning from El’una to deposit the colour on the spot of fresh plaster. “I’m not sure I understand what this has to do with me, though.”

“I consider myself lucky,” El’una begins. “Despite being unable to light a candle with magic until I was nearly fully grown, dreams have always been a place of escape and enjoyment for me: For as far back as I can remember, I’ve possessed a sense of lucidity in my dreams. Granted, it serves to do little more than to shock me back into waking when my mind takes me to a frightening or dangerous place, but it’s some measure of clarity, nonetheless.” She pauses and sticks her tongue out of the corner of her mouth as she forces her fingers into the right places on the neck of the lute and her other fingers strum the strings. “Since the events at the Conclave, I find that I can in some ways actually alter the events that occur in my dreams: It’s increasingly easy of late to take that lucidity and make conscious decisions as if I were awake.”

“Can you give me a specific example of a recent dream where you’ve demonstrated this ability?” Solas inquires, taking a few paces backwards from the wall, tapping his brush against his chin and staring at his work: Hook, line, and sinker - he may not show it, but El’una knows that he’s fascinated by the direction this conversation is going in. Hopefully this ends favourably for her: She hasn’t even told him why she’s asking him all of this.

Coming up with an answer to his question is not difficult; El’una has had dozens of dreams ranging from early adolescence till present where she has made lucid decisions, but one of the most recent and most memorable immediately leaps to the top of the list. She has her suspicions about the nature and outcome of the dream, but Strange Solas will be the one to confirm them.

“I was in a dark, simply adorned room. I can’t recall his face, but I know the person with me was male. I remember he was tall and lithe, and I remember he had no hair on his head, rather like another comely elf who I find myself dreaming of often.” She smiles at his back.

“I can assure you, It was not me.” He says, not turning around.

“Yes, well the lack of outright hand-holding and snogging was a dead giveaway.” El’una says before continuing. “Besides, I’ve seen you unclothed enough that I think I would have noticed that you possess the markings that this elf had: They were rather like vallaslin, except they were all over his body and… _older_ , if that makes sense.”

“Perfect sense.” Solas says, “Do you recall the effect of these designs? What they looked like?”

“No.” El’una scoffs, shaking her head. “I couldn’t sit down with a bit of parchment and sketch them out, if that’s what you’re asking. Neither my memory nor my hand are that talented, I’m afraid.”

Solas admires his work for a moment again before returning to the table and cleaning the brush once more. Silence is punctuated by the light splashing of water as he works the brush around in the water, freeing it of colour. “It is of little matter anyway.” He says encouragingly, offering her the special and warming smile she sees him render to others very rarely. “What matters is this; do you have any idea what the elf wanted with you?”

“He wanted to teach me how to center myself when I feel overwhelmed in combat. There was a desire to pass on something that would help me nullify the effects of any fear-inducing magic that might be used against me.”

The brush stills in the water, and Solas is looking at her intently now. “Does this happen often? Do you frequently find yourself feeling overwhelmed in our entanglements?”

There is a betrayed sense of concern in his words that El’una understands very well: Solas is a gifted and talented mage, full of more knowledge than any Circle library could hope to hold, she imagines. But over the months, she’s noticed that his strengths do not lie in combat. The self-taught apostate prefers to hang back in battle, staying a distance further away than that of a more offensively-minded mage like herself or Dorian might. There has been more than one occasion where she has taken a hit that might have been intended for him, had he been closer to the thick of things. On more than one occasion, he has expressed to her that moments like those frustrate him - for he wishes he were more powerful.

She’s offered to help him, assuming he’d be quick to learn. Despite this, he declines her offer, a response that struck her as odd initially, but was eventually chalked up to be merely a matter of personal preference: Solas was indeed a perfectly fine and useful addition to any fight. He just needed to give the area a wider berth than some.

“Hard not to.” El’una shrugs. “Difficult to not feel at least a little overwhelmed on the rare occasion that I get boxed in by three red templars, all swinging swords at me. It was my choice to learn arcane battle-magic, and my runed sword isn’t going to do much good if I swing at an enemy that’s too far away to hit, is it?” She taps her knuckles against the body of the lute, absent-mindedly pleased at the sound it creates. “The point isn’t whether I feel like that; I do from time to time. What matters is being able to move past it and keep fighting.”

“Of course.” Solas agrees, and he tilts his head towards her slightly in a gesture of understanding. “Did he tell you why he chose to impart this knowledge to you of all people?”

“Only a rather cryptic declaration that ‘ _the knowledge I pass unto you will be of aid if you ever dream of conquering fear itself_.’” El’una says, drawing her thumb and forefinger up and down the strings of the instrument in her lap. “At that point, I wasn’t about to start asking silly questions.”

“Curious…” Solas purrs, loading his brush with a deep, dark red that reminds El’una of nothing more than blood. “And you recall having complete control over whatever words you spoke to the elf, and how you reacted to any words of his own? It wasn’t like most dreams where you are little more than a bystander to your fate? Or perhaps unable to speak or think altogether?” The brush still lingers in the pot of blood red even though it is thoroughly saturated with colour.

“I feel as though I would have noticed that the elf in my dreams had gotten so focused on the conversation at hand that he’s forgotten that his paintbrush is resting in a load of paint.” El’una notes, glancing down at Solas’ still hand. His own eyes snap to the same place, and the brush is snapped up from the liquid. “And then I feel as though I would have been able to tell him as such, much like I did just now, with you.”

He looks at her then and beams, as he is wont to do on occasion; it is usually just after she has said something that makes him very happy.

“Then I have every reason to believe that you were consciously sharing a portion of the Fade with a spirit of Valor.” He claims as if this occurrence is something akin to looking out of a window and declaring that yes, indeed the sky is blue and birds fly in it. “This is a rare thing to happen: Even in the best and most profoundly impactful of dreams, a spirit’s influence may only go as far as observable inspiration: It must have been a very old, powerful spirit to be able to manifest so lucidly to you.”

“Or I could possess enough inherent valor for it to manifest lucidly to me.” El’una argues in a friendly manner. “Give me at least some credit.” Solas shakes his head at her and turns back to the wall to deposit his red, and El’una continues. “Credit or not, I’d like to know what’s causing it; as I’ve said, dreams weren’t like this before. Do you think I’m safe? Valor is all well and good and quite flattering, truth be told. But what of spirits that may be attracted by my less savoury virtues?”

“As I implied earlier, there’s likely a number of causes and no one, solid answer. Much as you have already supposed, I would wager that the mark is of significant impact on your nightly connection to the Fade: The natural magic of the mark swirls around you and allows you to manipulate the veil in waking, thus it makes sense that it allows you to manipulate it in dreaming as well: If the mark only worked on some parts of the veil and not others, it would not be the mark, would it?”

“You’re the Fade expert.” El’una admits. “But that doesn’t speak to the lucidity of my dreams before the mark.”

The bristles of the brush are drawn away from the wall and Solas swaps the brush to a different hand so he can wipe some paint off his fingers and onto his trousers. “You are - “ He begins, his voice ringing out clearly at first, but then cutting off abruptly. “You are Dalish.” He says, speaking much more quietly this time. “Your people tell of The Dreamers, and how all elvhen used to be masters of Dreaming, yes? It may be a talent that isn’t as such common among your people, but seeing as you are descended from the elves of old, you certainly have a deeper connection to the Fade and are better equipped to Dreaming than human mages, who for the most part, can only achieve pale aptitude at the skill regardless of how much effort is put towards it. Some naturally Dream better than others: It may be that you’re just incredibly lucky and the mark exacerbates that luck further.” He faces her now. “Am I to believe that you’re asking me all of this because you wish to not dream with such fervour anymore?” There is a teasing quality to his voice that does exactly what it’s supposed to; his words instantly bring her back to beautiful, otherworldly landscapes and soft hands on bare flesh.

This time, she does not rise to her lover’s coquettish bait, and says, “Of course not. I only wondered if I might be able to affect my dreams as vividly as you do - gaze upon the wonders that you show me; that I would dare to seek them for myself. Could I do it safely?”

He chuckles now. Properly chuckles - and in doing so, gives perfect weight to Varric’s moniker of choice for him.

“Another bold, yet unsurprising aim from the elf who would be Herald.” He says. “And not one without justification.”

“But?” El’una prompts, knowing that his compliment - while earnestly given - was precipitous of a cautionary explanation.

“I’ve studied for years.” Solas begins bringing his hands up as he speaks, but his words halt and his shoulders drop. “El’una,” He announces her name as if announcing his intention behind what he wishes to say next. “Your fervour and curiousity regarding the Fade is refreshing if I’m to be plain, but I’m afraid that manipulating dreams is not a skill that can be chalked up to luck itself. It has taken me my whole _life_ to unlock what knowledge I have of the Fade, and the same can be said for many others who are even less learned than I. It isn’t as though I doubt your ability to learn, but rather am hesitant to put the stock of your abilities into leveraging on the mark in order to do so: There is no predicting what such an outcome may be. What end drives you to possess this knowledge?”

El’una sighs and rolls her shoulders as she might when she’s dealing with a particularly stubborn individual; the sort who wants to have his or her cards read, but is not willing to find the correct questions to ask. “With or without the mark I’m still a mage, and I’m still connected to the Fade: Dalish do not undergo a Harrowing, but rather are taught discipline and skill while simultaneously being trusted to use our magic with care and mindfulness. With or without the mark, I will still walk the Fade; with the mark that connection - by your own admittance - is amplified. I have already encountered Valour in this state; should I not be able to also hold my ground against Envy or Despair? You’ve spoken of the mindset of the Dreamer before; how their encounters within the Fade are shaped by their intent and openness. Were I able to practice and maintain the mindset that drew Valour to me, would it not be safe to assume that any other spirits I might encounter wouldn’t be inclined to manifest as demons?”

“Falling asleep with a mentality of ‘ _no demons tonight’_ will do you about as much good as looking outside upon waking and beseeching the clouds not to rain: Your mindset and approach will have no impact or bearing on whether or not the clouds open up.”

“Right. That’s useful.” El’una concedes, but is by no means satisfied., “Then how do you do it? Can’t remember the last time I ran into a demon with you in a dream.”

Solas is starting to get frustrated; it happens rarely, but at the strangest of times - like now. She gets the impression from the set of his jaw and his challenging brow that he’s practically on the verge of launching into a tirade about aspects of magic that even a Keeper would be pressed to understand properly.

She only waits patiently. Silently.

Instead of setting free what it is he truly wishes to say, El’una watches him pick up the semi-opaque jar of water from the table and cross the room till he is in front of her.

“This paintbrush is straight to your eyes, yes?” He asks, giving her a clear view of the instrument in his fingers.

“It most certainly appears to be, Strange Solas.” El’una answers coolly, wondering where he’s going with this.

The brush is dropped into the glass, bristled end down. “And now?”

El’una sits forward, curving over the lute in her lap as she surveys the scene Solas has created for her. One of her hands darts out and finds purchase on the back of her lover’s thigh and pulls him a bit closer. “That’s better.” She notes. “Hard to see when you’re so bloody far away.” Her lower lip is drawn through her teeth as she takes in the jar and the brush. “Indeed to the eye, the brush appears to be crooked where it enters the water as though it is in two separate places at one time.” She glances up from under her brows to meet Solas’ eyes. “Your example lacks impact, though; I understand that the break between the brush and the water is merely an illusion and not a reality.” She rises to her feet then, doffing the lute next to her on the couch. Her fingers find the handle of the brush and draw it from the water until it hangs between them, clenched between her thumb and forefinger. “I know how to make the brush straight again.”

Solas’ gaze burns into her. The distance between them is small and there is an unmistakeable sensation of challenge and dissent lingering in the space there. “How would you expect to perceive the solution to the break if you have never encountered it before?” He queries. “Experience and knowledge has taught you how to straighten the brush in this case; how might you react if you had never seen such a thing before? You might think it to be magic, when in fact it is only a different perception of reality; the brush looks broken, but it still whole and straight under the water: That is law here, but it may not be in the Fade, where things are ever-changing. Hoping to adhere to natural laws of this world will do you little good.”

He is impossible, El’una decides as he sets the jar on the table behind him and she returns the paintbrush to his hand. He seems to understand the sentiment without her having to actually say anything, and he crosses his arms in front of him. El’una mirrors the strong-willed pose as his eyes search her face for a time.

“For all of your commitment to getting the answer you want to hear out of me, you’ve done nothing to expand upon your aims.” He says, and El’una feels her lips pull into the smile of someone who is trying to be very serious, but is failing miserably; it’s hard to stare at his face with such intensity and not realize how ridiculous this argument is. “Your stubborn interest in the matter serves to make it clear that you’re not asking all of this out of mere fanciful curiousity.”

“Well, Strange Solas,” She begins. “Seeing as you’re so guarded with your own answers, I suppose I shall pull back some of the guard around my questions: As it turns out, I happen to know someone who is deeply troubled by their dreams. Tormented even. Not only do I regard this individual as a friend, but they are also instrumental to the success of the Inquisition and I would use this mark to relieve them of their trials.”

Solas tilts his head inquisitively, though she knows her message was understood. “Indeed, a military leader can only perform so well if the quality of his sleep is in question.” His arms fall to his sides. “You speak of the Commander. You see him struggling to carry the weight of running the military might of the Inquisition, and would resort to purging his dreams of terrors yourself if it meant he would approach his role with more confidence and surety.” He snorts and shakes his head. “Let no one ever say that you don’t care about your people, El’una.”

“Yes!” El’una exclaims, eyes rolling up to the ceiling in exasperated triumph.

“For the reason that I care about _you_ , I would ask you to strongly consider abandoning your intentions.”

El’una looks utterly taken aback; her nose wrinkles and her brow furrows. “Don’t be ridiculous!” She retorts with the cavalier tone of a mage who is not very often told that they cannot do something. “I can - “

“You can’t.” Solas interrupts, his voice rising to match the volume of her own. “Tell me; has the Commander ever chosen to make you privy to any details of the nightmares he is plagued with?”

“Not exactly an ideal topic of conversation is it?” El’una breathes. “‘ _Good day, Commander. Just thought I’d come visit you to ask about what horrors you saw as you slept last night. Don’t be shy; I want descriptions._ ’” She mocks darkly, shaking her own head now, and pacing a few steps away from the Fadewalker. “I imagine it is much the same reason he hasn’t seen fit to _leap_ into the conversation either.”

“There is a reason for that, my love. Cullen is a man of duty and action; he does not wish to draw attention to his perceived weakness and become yet another burden on your already mountainous heap of them. A man of his like accepts the responsibility that accompanies his actions; have you not considered that he may believe he deserves the terrors? That he may feel righteous for not having succumbed to them?”

El’una feels blood rushing to her face and her mouth hangs open for only a moment before her face twists into a skeptical scowl. “That may possibly be the most ridiculous reasoning behind anything I’ve ever heard!” She declares, gesturing through the air with a hand. “Even if that is the case; I don’t care. He’s my military advisor, and a friend: This is killing him, and I won’t have that if there is anything I can do to prevent it!”

“Cullen is only a man.” Solas points out, his voice even and calm despite El’una’s indignation.“He is in no physical harm in the Fade, regardless of the nature of his dreams. You on the other hand, are a unique case with unknowable limits.”

“Oh don’t speak to me of _limits_.” El’una returns. “You and I both know how I tend to approach such things.”

“You are speaking purely from your heart!” Solas argues, his own voice now reciprocating El’una’s hard edge. “Even if you were capable of controlling your perception of spirits in the Fade, you would not be able to control his! The rawness, the pain, the regret, the shame that he feels are more potent than any feelings of peace you might hope to bring. While you alone may perceive spirits of Serenity and Peace, he will inevitably twist those things to demons of Despair and Fear, both of which are more potent emotions that will surely overpower any control you would hope to have. Would you rather have the cards fall such that you are both trapped in his nightmare? A heavy-handed attempt at something like this almost surely guarantees exacerbating the issue, rather than providing a balm for it. Would you feel better carrying the knowledge that you’ve worsened the Commander’s state?”

El’una clenches at her fingers absently until each one of them pops at her side. She regards her lover from across the room; the dissent that existed between them originally has turned into a palpable sense of annoyance, frustration, and even anger. She forces her breathing to slow and adjusts her posture so that it is slightly less confrontational. She understands that in all honesty, she should feel warmed by Solas’ care for her wellbeing, and that he is right about a number of things; specifically the fact that she literally has no idea what she’s doing, and that blindly stumbling into something like this could end in disaster.

But… at their meeting this morning, she could not overlook his dull skin and hollow eyes. The whites of his eyes were tinged pink and if one paid enough attention, they could detect the slight tremors that visited him every now and then. No one should live like that if they don’t have to: Cullen doesn’t have to.

“The idea of being trapped in a thousand nightmares and never dreaming of beauty again is more appealing than stepping back.” She says finally, once again meeting Solas’ eyes with a defiance he knows is innerly driving him mad. “This is not for my benefit, but for that of the Inquisition.” She lowers her tone, hoping that it is made clear to Solas that she’s not doing this out of spite. “I will find him.” She promises, “I will use what Valour taught me in the Fade, and I will help him.” She pauses and begins to cross to the door, no longer able to hold her gaze upon Solas’ face. “If you refuse to help me, I will find a way myself, my heart.”


	6. Freeing the Lion

The familiar hall around her echoes with the sounds of frivolity and cheer. El’una looks around the dining hall from her place at the high table and feels herself smile at the sight of Skyhold’s people dining and dancing, singing and toasting. The wet nose of a hound nudges her knee under the table, hoping for a scrap. El’una obliges, tearing off a small piece of her roast and passing it to the drooling creature as subtly as possible before lifting her goblet of wine to her lips.

“May I have this dance, my Lady?”

She sets the goblet down and savours the bold taste of the wine on her lips, turning to the speaker who has placed a hand on her shoulder. “Of course you may, ser.” She smiles at the kind face of Lord… Lord… well, he’s her betrothed. Pushing her chair away from the table, she stands, slipping her hand into the soft, warm grip of the man who walks her to the dance floor.

“This is a favourite song of mine.” He says softly as El’una gathers him into her arms and begins leading a waltz. He rests his head on her shoulder as they dance and El’una feels herself slowing to a halt as familiar realization dawns upon her: Something is not quite right about this: It all feels rather like trying to put an item of clothing on backwards.

“As enjoyable as this is, my sweet love, this is in fact _my_ favourite tune, not yours, and I fear that I have somewhere else to be at the moment.”

The handsome lord looks at her, confusion written all over his absurdly good looking face. El’una struggles not to laugh, and she struggles even harder not to wake up: Marrying some rich Ferelden lord will _never_ be any sort of reality for her; this entire scenario is ridiculously laughable, now that she comprehends it. However, there is a new problem now: Being able to wake up from a terrible dream, resulted in the common reaction to wake up when she realized she was dreaming at all - that won’t do right now, so instead she forces herself to focus on the disjointed conversation of the noble couple nearby while she gains her bearings.

She looks at her hands, taking in familiarities - cuts, calluses, the Mark. Yes. This is indeed a dream, and while it had been necessary to abandon her dance with the handsome lord, it is of utmost importance that she remain dreaming.

“Cullen.” She speaks aloud to herself, looking up from her hands and glancing around the warmly lit room. Her surroundings dim in front of her eyes dangerously and she feels her fingers tighten around something that might have been a blanket. She casts around desperately and wraps the same fingers around something in the dream: A fork. She snatches it up from its place on the table and holds it close to her, focusing intently on the feel of cool steel against her skin until things stabilize and return to normal - or as normal as things can be in a dream.

The music and chatter resumes and the handsome lord stands silent and unmoving in front of her; now nothing more than a handsome waxwork of fantasy. “Cullen.” She repeats, taking a step forward, then another, then another. She circles the room, ducking between dancing couples and servants, looking for any sign of her Commander. Where might he be in this imagining of the Fade? For a moment she wonders if she isn’t in over her head; if perhaps she should pay heed to Solas’ caution and abandon this dangerous endeavor. No, she cares too much about the wellbeing of her Commander to let this slide. At the very least, she requires a healthy man to lead the Inquisition’s army, at the very most, he is someone that she’s come to know as a friend, and she has never been content to see people close to her suffer. With this in mind, she pushes on, nearing the massive fireplace that is set into the wall on the opposite end of the hall.

A large group of people has gathered near the fireplace, huddled around something that El’una cannot not see. There appears to be between fifteen and twenty of them and they are laughing, clapping, and shouting cheerfully, their backs turned to El’una.

While the inviting atmosphere that has permeated the dream doesn’t change, El’una feels a jolt of terror run through her when she catches a glimpse of what entertains the group of people so.

A male lion, enormous and golden is chained inside an iron cage, pacing fearfully as the guests of Skyhold jeer and prod at it. Rage streaks through her; she would _never_ allow something like this to happen inside Skyhold: She and her clan held firmly to the belief that Ghilan’nain had created beasts of the wild, and thus belonged to her and for that reason deserved reverence. Naturally sustaining themselves with the flesh and hide of game is one thing, but humiliating, taunting and being cruel to animals for the sake of entertainment runs deeply against what El’una was taught.

Remembering this, El’una forces her reactive emotions back, replacing them with calm lucidity, and the reminder that this is merely a dream - her dream - and the lion is unmistakably her interpretation of Cullen, but she can’t help him here: using her presence to stop the guests from taunting the lion would only serve to alter her own perception, not Cullen’s.

She has found the crooked section of paintbrush under the water, now she needs to pull it free.

The lion growls far back in its throat and presses its back against the iron bars that hold it: Someone is jabbing at it with a fireplace poker. El’una watches on as the majestic beast lifts a paw the size of her face and bats feebly at the poker. It looks up for a moment and El’una meets its large, golden eyes with her own: They are round, fearful, and full of sadness, and the hall around her is replaced for a moment by a place that is cold and dark. The lion snarls and El’una is back in the hall, although the unmistakable scent of magic and blood now hangs thick in the air.

Elbowing her way between guests, she presses herself as closely to the cage as possible, reaching through the gaps in the bars and holding out a hand to the lion.

“Hey.” She whispers, resting her forehead against the bars.

The lion looks up at the only voice nearby that is not one that is cruel, and he takes a tentative step forward as El’una is jostled by the rambunctious crowd.

“It’ll be alright.” She promises as people throw grapes at the lion and attempt to grasp his long tail. “I’ll set you free.”

The lion ceases abruptly a few inches away from El’una’s outstretched fingers. Its lips rise in a twitch and the world around her flickers again. Between the space of a blink she sees a man in Templar armour with blonde hair in a heap on the ground at her feet. Traumatized brown eyes rake over her, shock gives way to anger, and Cullen can’t seem to form words. Everything smells of fear and lightning.

El’una has only the irritated toss of a mane and a clipped roar to serve as warning: She jerks her hand back just in time to avoid the brutal jaws of the lion clamping down on her arm. Drawing a deep breath and settling herself as Valour taught her, she stands ground. The lion huffs angrily, its chains shifting as bystanders continue to torment it.

He recognized her, she knows that much. She had manifested in his perception for only a moment, but he recognized her in that brief instance. His reaction however, suggests that he believes her to be little more than another illusion. She sighs and taps her fingers against her thigh as she thinks: It will do her no good to alter the perception of Cullen’s dream if he thinks she is only a demon taking her shape.

The lion gnashes its teeth, causing El’una to jump, and it resumes its pacing, dragging its chains along with it. She notes that the lion is bleeding freely now; his mane matted with a dark sticky substance that dribbles onto the floor and strikes her face when his head is tossed irritably. Her stomach lurches uncomfortably at this realization: Solas had told her that Cullen couldn’t be harmed in the Fade: It was one thing for him to be tormented, but to see him physically tortured was another.

She notices then, that her hand is still solidly gripping the fork she had picked up earlier. She looks down to see that her fingers are wrapped around the familiar, broken-in hilt of her own sword instead.

“Go on then, Inquisitor.” The guest nearest to her says encouragingly. “Slay the beast! Put it out of its misery!”

El’una turns, ready to furiously rebuke the guest, starting when the woman’s face appears to pull and distort. She looks around at the other people surrounding the cage and sees that their faces have all started to do the same: flesh sags from empty sockets and sneers pull at the corners of mouths that are too wide.

“What -- what are you?” She takes a step back, raising the sword defensively as the group around the lion turns its focus on her instead, cruel laughter directed at her now as they begin to press in.

“Kill the beast!” They chant; a harmonized legion of terrible voices. El’una can see through a small gap in the crowd that the lion is slumped on the floor, all of the fight in it gone as it bleeds out.

The gruesome details of their faces are all El’una can focus on as they edge closer to her, and she feels her lucidity slipping away as her carefully crafted focus begins to unravel into a the familiar, helpless sensation of a nightmare.

“No… I won’t do this!” She cries, trying to keep her voice strong as they muscle her back to the cage. Her fingers loosen around the sword and she hears it clatter to the ground as her physical anchor to the dream leaves her and her surroundings once again replace themselves with those of Cullen’s.

She immediately feels her arms seized by half a dozen strong, very angry hands. She realizes then why she smelled blood and lightning the last time she was here - She understands the vicious purple glow. She comprehends the quaking man in the Templar armor- Cullen doesn’t like to speak of it in detail, but has made mention of it a time or two.

She is in Kinloch Hold.

She has stumbled into the memory of a dozen hate-filled, vengeful blood-mages who now linger in the Fade, seeking pain as recompense for the lives that were stolen from them. More likely than not, they languished in pain and torment, drawing spirits of Compassion and Sorrow and twisting them unknowingly to Resentment and Despair. It only makes sense that the stain of these memories would be drawn to Cullen, a Templar responsible for their suffering. Her heart quickens as she realizes the very real danger that she is in now.

“Cullen!” She barks, struggling against the arms that pull her back. Solas was right; placid, well-intentioned focus was useless here in Cullen’s pocket of the Fade. He doesn’t seem to see El’una as anything other than another spectre sent to torment him, and the spirits that dwell here are drawn by his despair and fear, their own anger and rage feeding off the guilt he carries of the lives that were snuffed out by his hands. “Fuck.” She mutters, mind desperately playing through any possible scenario that might get them out of here.

Jabbing an elbow into the face of one of the nightmare assailants, she manages to pull her left arm free, and she reaches out towards her Commander who is frozen in place, staring in shock at the viciously attacking mages.

“I don’t… I don’t understand…” He croaks through cracked, bleeding lips. Whatever he is seeing, it must certainly different than what he usually experienced. El’una supposes the attention of the memories is usually focused on him: It must surely seem strange to see them so intent on attacking whatever it is she appears to be. She has his attention, though, and it is very much at her cost: There isn’t much time.

“Cullen, run!” She snaps, stomping her heel down on the foot of one of the nightmares that is trying to claw at her face, paying it no more heed than that.

“Run…?” He repeats distantly, still staring at her with a vacant expression as she sees him working to figure out what’s happening. “I can’t run…” He states and El’una wants to strangle him herself.

“You can!” She promises instead, holding out her anchor-lit hand like a beacon with a half-dreamt hope that he might be able to figure out it was her. “You can run. You have _always_ been able to run, so I’m telling you to do it now, Commander!” The order falls from her lips and she immediately feels badly about it; she has never enjoyed the notion of ordering _anyone_ to do anything. Even around the war table, she considers him an equal, and in fact humbly accepts that he is far more knowledgeable than she in a variety of areas. This is not the war table, however, and she has precious little time to exert any control over this situation. She can feel herself starting to slide back towards a waking state, her mind instinctively seizing on the safety line that connects her to reality as the furious spectres around her claw at her skin and pull at her hair. She is little more than a terrified child once more, and instinctual terror is beginning to overwhelm her sense of reason.

She lets it happen.

She takes his nightmare and makes it her own. She keeps them focused on her: Her magic, her natural connection to the Fade - the fact that she is lucid and not some random dreamer. She waves her glowing hand at Cullen one last time as the figures begin to overwhelm her, slowly crushing her to the ground. He takes a final, lingering glance at her, looking worn, beaten and monumentally confused before he obeys her command, turns and disappears into the darkness at a dead sprint.

El’una doesn’t take the time to rejoice; she knows she needs to get out of this place before she succumbs to the full brunt of Cullen’s nightly tribulations. The spirits that surround her seem greedy -- thrilled that someone so aware has stumbled into their hell that’s reserved for Cullen each night.

A blood-slicked and burnt hand reaches for her throat, fingers slipping over her unbroken flesh while they tighten over her windpipe and begin to squeeze. She groans and her conviction flags as she resigns herself to the depth of this nightmare: Cullen ran and that was all that mattered. She knows this is a dream: She would shoulder this. She would gladly do it a thousand more times… Solas and his concern be damned, she decides, although there is an immediate twinge of guilt at the thought; he had only advised her against this with her best interests at heart. He was far more knowledgeable in the Fade than she and she had flouted that fact like a petulant child: She always _did_ possess a tendency to commit to a course of action before asking questions.

Then, a warm, somewhat clammy hand on her arm. Someone shaking her. Wildflowers. Soft blankets, legs tangled in sheets. Moonlight. A sound she can’t quitet comprehend.

El’una shoves the hand away and gasps for air as sleep lifts and consciousness returnes. Her eyes lift open and she stares, wide-eyed into the face of an elven servant.

“Lady Inquisitor?” The woman ventures, eyes also wide. “Forgive the intrusion… I… I heard screaming.”

El’una groans and pushes herself into an upright position with the palm of her hand, while running her other hand through the damp mop of hair that she can tell is plastered to her head in some places, sticking up madly in others. Her heart pounds in her chest and she feels the familiar dissociative state of an adrenaline rush ebbing away. She presses the heels of her shaking hands into her eyes as her stomach rolls on itself. It had been a very long time since she has experienced a nightmare that went so deep. Without warning she lurches to the side, and vomit splattersthe floor next to the bed. “Ugh…” She utters, willing her heart to slow down. “My apologies.” She straightens and wipes her mouth with the back of her arm, feeling worse for the deeply concerned servant than herself. “It was only a nightmare. I’m fine.”

“You are certain, Inquisitor?” The woman asks, looking unconvinced.

“Yes.” She insists gently, her head still spinning. The breeze from the open door to the veranda plays over them both, chilling El’una’s hot skin as a question finally forms in her mind. “What… what were you doing outside my chambers at this time of night?”

The servant clears her throat and motions to a tray that had looks to have been hastily doffed onto the table near the stairs. A steaming mug and a small plate of what looks to be warm cakes sits atop it. El’una’s brow furrows: She certainly doesn’t _recall_ asking for a snack to be sent up this late at night.

Sensing El’una’s confusion, the scullery maid speaks up again, “The mage who does those beautiful paintings in the rotunda requested they be sent up. Kitchen thought he was barmy, making a request like that at half-three in the morning, but it was lucky timing, wasn’t it? Sounds like you almost died of fright.” The maid crosses to the table and retrieves the mug and the small plate, bringing it over to El’una. She accepts the mug with a smile as the scent fills her nose; hot lemon water.

“Lucky timing indeed.” She muses, hiding a small smile behind the rim of the cup, imagining Solas still awake, sitting at his table with a book propped open with one hand, and a steaming mug of his own in the other - his expression very smug.

A night at camp swallows her. It’s a cloudless night in the Hinterlands, allowing her ample opportunity to spend time on her watch, divining the stars, asking them questions that only they can whisper back in time itself. She lays on her back, stretched out on the grass, losing herself in their mystery as Bull snores a symphony in a nearby tent.

Greens and blues dance against the black; colours not wrought a rift in the sky, but rather a colourful display that had existed far beyond the grasp of memory, let alone the breach. A star falls out of the sky, followed by another soon after, and the hazy arm of the galaxy that cradles them lingers comfortingly like a fine haze across the sky. Feeling blessed, she acknowledges that she hasn’t seen such a memorably beautiful sky in… well… she can’t actually remember the sky _ever_ looking like this if she’s honest with herself.

“Beautiful, yes?”

She starts and flips onto her stomach, fingers reaching instantly around her staff. Her breath is driven from her lungs and instead of attacking, she says, “You don’t suppose I’ve had enough dreams for one evening, hmmm?”

Solas warms his hands by the fire, its bright violet colour originally overlooked by El’una. He says nothing, only smiling slightly as she lets the staff slide from her fingers.

“You made all of this?” She asks, looking around her. Granted, now that she’s aware of the fact she’s dreaming, there are small giveaways everywhere; the fire of course is one. The grass beneath her bare feet is far too green and lush for this time of year, Bull’s cacophonous snores have mysteriously ceased and there isn’t a single Inquisition agent in sight.

“Only altered it to my liking, and… hopefully yours.” He answers.

El’una sighs. “I should have taken your advice to heart.” She admits with ease, sitting back on her knees. “Going after Cullen… did not work out well.”

“Not for you, perhaps.” Solas concedes. “But the Commander slumbers peacefully tonight for what might be the first time in years thanks to you.” Any edge or exasperation that had lingered in his voice from their discussion earlier is gone. If anything he sounds a bit tired, but relaxed.

“How did you know to send the maid up?” El’una inquires, unable to keep the pressing question to herself any longer.

Solas’ eyes flick up and vivid light dances mischievously within their depths . “Aside from the well understood words you left me with earlier in the day: You dream loudly.” He points out, not unkindly.

“Oh, of course. So foolish of me to forget: My apologies, ser. I shall try to remember myself in the future.” She quips, shaking her head and frowning playfully at him.

He laughs low in his throat. “While I am not surprised that you struggled through the experience, I  stand corrected in respect to my own ego; you possess an organized mind, and that was not even half the disaster I anticipated.”

“At least you’re honest that you anticipated a disaster of _some_ variety.” El’una nibbles the inside of her cheek. “You were watching me.” She finally says.

“In part.” Solas admits. “No more than any other bystander who found themselves there.”

“You mean other people were in my dream… just watching?” El’una asks, feeling rather vulnerable and intruded upon: Does this mean that there’s a steady stream of spectators lingering on the outskirts of every dream she’s ever had, regardless of subject matter? She feels her cheeks redden slightly at the thought.

“Probably. But they were unlikely as conscious of it than you or me. As I said; you dream loudly. Others in the Fade will be pulled towards such volume whether they choose to be or not.”

“Yes well, happy endings are all well and good, but my apology still stands.” She impresses.

“Why apologize for breaking the rules of a game that you’ve never even played?” He asks then, looking genuinely puzzled. “I myself must apologize for forgetting that, and for underestimating your focus and desire to learn.”

El’una clears her throat, feeling utterly complimented, but very flushed. “Thank you, then.” She replies, and there is silence between them for awhile.

“You recognize settings, do you not? You anchor yourself to a place in the Fade when you realize that you have seen it before.” He hypothesizes after a time.

“I dream of no more than ten and no less than eight such places.” She answers. “Usually they are not real; they literally cannot exist in the world: Some of them at least. But even the ones that aren’t real I _know_ , if that makes any sense. There may be something different happening, or there might be some small change in appearance, but they are always the same places. They are like…” Her words flag as she searched for the right ones. “They are like little homes, just for me; places that only I know how to get to. Sometimes they hold delight and adventure, other times they are oppressive and frightening. Regardless, I somehow always know that they are mine.”

Solas nods slowly at her explanation. “The fact that you even recognize all of these places from so many experiences is the first step in being able to alter them.” He tells her, his eyes bright, engaged and… proud?

“Alter them?” She scoffs, “Hardly a simple feat, Solas. Tonight. This. It was a farce. I had to fight tooth and nail to remain asleep and calm, and in the end I was only able to barely shift the tide. Only by letting the nightmare take me was I able to manipulate the outcome of that dream.”

“Simple is hardly what _able_ was meant to intend.” He retorts. “If you desire, I could show you?” His words noticeably change tone from an offer to a question, betraying a curious and uncharacteristically vulnerable state: There has been an invisible boundary between them up until this point; an acknowledgement of mutual feelings, but the understanding that every kiss, every touch, and every night spent in the other’s arms is something that neither of them should be indulging in. Yet, this question leaves her with the impression that he’s asking it because he wants to teach her something, and more that it has been asked because by learning, that invisible wall will disappear a little more.

There has always been something remarkably lonesome about the man before her.

“Only if you aren’t intending on starting with the lofty task of hanging stars in the sky.” She says, joining him by the fire.

This earns her another low chuckle, “Of course not.”

With only a small gesture over the fire, its flames instantly become bright white. She takes the opportunity to push the palm of her hand up against his, feeling his realness in the valleys and grooves of his palm and the sensation of his fingers flat against her own. How could dreams feel so tangible? She ponders the question for a time, and then Solas speaks.

“Small things at first, heart. Eventually, with enough practice you will be able to create an escape for yourself or remove the ground from under a foe who is chasing you. You will be able to change your face or dance among the stars. Further effort will give you the ability to summon forth entire settings, either imagined or drawn from ancient memory.” He presses the backs of her fingers to his lips, and she finds herself wishing that he didn’t look so fucking sad as he said, “The possibilities are endless.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking around, friends. This chapter is another re-worked and tweaked flashback from Endless Possibilities that I decided fit better here.  
> Hope you liked it!
> 
> On a more serious note; a town in my province of residence has been more or less leveled by a massive wildfire this week. This town was an economic hub in Alberta, and along with having to struggle with some severely scary economic conditions over the past year, the 80,000+ people who lived there have now been entirely evacuated and displaced.  
> No one knows when they'll be able to return, home, and judging by the maps and graphic coming out of Fort McMurray, thousands probably won't have homes to return to at all. 
> 
> I don't ask for things often, but if you could [please donate to the Alberta Red Cross](https://donate.redcross.ca/ea-action/action?ea.client.id=1951&ea.campaign.id=50610&utm_source=twitter&utm_medium=social&utm_campaign=NO-DM)
> 
> (even a small amount will do. Seriously, like... $5 is great,) it would really help a lot of people: Most have lost not only their homes and businesses, but their vehicles, clothing, family memories and photos. Most people fled the city with little more than their families, pets, and the clothes on their backs. There are abandoned cars all over the highway out of town where people either ran out of gas, or their tires blew because the road was so hot: They had to leave their vehicles and literally run from this fire. 
> 
> If you can help even a little, you're helping a lot.


	7. Gold Gods and Green

There had been a long walk by the river, made delightful by the afternoon sun and the damp spring air. They had carefully picked their way over river stones and meandered up a gentle hill to sit and stare over the valley; the grass was still brown, and the trees still bare, but signs of renewal cropped up everywhere. From the shabby squirrel she had observed collecting as much food as it could from the base of an evergreen tree, to the two pairs of geese jockeying for territory on a sandbar in the river, it was clear that the weeks of heavy snows and frigid winds were behind the inhabitants of the mountain valley.

True to its purpose, the tincture she had painstakingly crafted over the winter months proved to be a beautifying addition to an already beautiful time of year: The change of seasons had always been a special time for El’una; spring denoted rebirth and resilience. What better time of year to step inside one’s mind and introspect on their place in life? She was pleased that upon explaining this frame of mind to Solas, he not only agreed to join her, but did so with an enthusiasm she hadn’t been expecting.

Both had dosed low on the spectrum of what the devised concoction was capable of, enjoying little more than a sunnier mental outlook on life and a rather floaty feeling rooted in the gut.

“You’ll still be able to compose yourself around people.” El’una assured Solas as she used the head of a pin to roll the teal-green gel onto one of two small elfroot leaves. “Not sure what your experience is, but if you’ve ever eaten any odd mushrooms found growing in the fields… well, I learned quickly that being around strange people is a very uncomfortable thing to experience in such a state. This takes that away, though.” She shoots him a crooked smile and pushes her hair over her shoulder. “Makes them more pleasant, truth be told.” She popped the leaf into her mouth, tucking it into the side of her cheek and Solas followed her lead.

They sit now on the well-worn settee in the rotunda; as the sun fell behind the mountains it was decided that a retreat back to warmth and food was in order. El’una is stretched out across the settee, her legs resting over Solas’ lap as he stares straight up, head resting on the back of the couch. Occasionally his thumb brushes soothingly over the bare skin of her leg. She supposes he’s watching the birds in the aviary as they flit across the open space, black silhouettes blotting out the amethyst coloured twilight above. She exhales deeply through her nose, and drags the pad of her thumb over the strings of the lute resting atop her belly. She squeezes her eyes shut: By her reckoning it has been about eight hours; everything is starting to feel a bit more permanent and real again, and the beginning of a headache is starting to edge into her tired mind, starting from somewhere behind her eyes: It’s as though they’re tired of being open. Worn out and sore, like muscles are after a full day spent in the yard.

Seeming to sense her growing discomfort, Solas gently rubs her leg and with the other hand, passes her the cup of wine from the table next to him. “Are you feeling alright?” He asks as she accepts the wine and takes a steady sip. He is looking at her, and she is reminded of how deeply appreciative she is of every curve and line on that face of his. She wants to continue gazing at the face she has come to love, but between the brightness of the torches around the room, and the effort it is taking for her eyes to even focus, she is forced to clench them shut again.

A slightly pained groan escapes clenched teeth and she forces her eyes open a crack and says, “Aye. I think my eyes are just a bit overstimulated… using them is hard. It’s as though they’re tired. It’s making my head hurt a bit: Everything seems a bit too bright.”

“Mine too.” Solas commiserates, and El’una understands now why he was looking upwards; it’s dark in the higher levels of this tower, and the soothing dusk light must be favourable to harsh torchlight.

“We could go somewhere a bit gentler on the senses.” El’una suggests, sliding her legs from Solas’ lap and placing her feet on the floor. She plucks out a few more pleasing notes on the lute that conveniently harmonize with the chiming of the adornments on her being that shifted with her movement. Her eyes follow the lines of the mural directly across from her and she hums softly. “A bath might be nice.” She muses aloud. “Warm. Dim. That sounds like exactly what I need right now.” The lute is set down against the settee and she squeezes Solas’ thigh. “Care to join me?” His answer is a returned squeeze and a slight nod and with that she rises from the comfortable seat, taking his hands and rocking back on her heels to pull him to his feet.

An order is whispered to a servant in the main chamber, and El’una and Solas set off into the depths of Skyhold in a search for a fresh bottle of wine while a bath is drawn in her quarters.

“I’ve never asked…” She says, as they make their way down the narrow halls to the wine cellar. She feels his breath on the back of her neck due to the closeness of this space and pushes the fingers of her left hand between his. “How tall are you, exactly?”

There is an amused huff of laughter, and then his retort, “Pardon?”

El’una looks over her shoulder, granting him a jesting smile. “You’re uncommonly tall for an elf. I’ve noticed before; you stand taller than Cassandra. I never thought to ask exactly how tall you are, so I’m doing it now.” Her hand pulls free of his own and he feels the fleeting sensation of fingers squeezing his backside, accompanied by a slightly dark giggle. “Not that I’m complaining.”

“Oh.” He remarks, fingers finding an ample handful of El’una’s own backside. “I would suggest you refrain from starting battles you cannot finish, vhenan.” He laughs when she emits a gasp and smacks his hand away. “I couldn’t tell you how tall I am; I can’t recall the last time I had clothing tailored for myself.”

“Hmmm…” El’una hums, selecting a bottle of wine and stepping back from Solas so that she may see his entire figure. She holds up her free hand in front of her and shuts an eye, squinting at him in the low light. “I would estimate you at around six foot.” She declares finally. “Dagna will need to take your measurements eventually, and you can count on having clothing tailored for you in the near future; we’ve got our visit to The Winter Palace to look forward to.” Her hand drops back to her side and she shakes her head. “It’s no wonder you put the Dalish on tenterhooks; you are freakishly tall. I say that with as much love as I can, but I must admit, even if you stumbled into my own clan, I’d be side-eyeing you fairly hard.”

“It is a good thing I never stumbled upon clan Lavellan in my wanderings then.” He retorts. “I admit I would likely have my own reservations about being followed around by a woman who seems intent to distrust me based on my height alone.”

“You’ll never get to where you’re meant to be if you don’t ask the right questions, you know.” El’una points out, reclaiming Solas’ hand in her own and making for the stairs. She blinks as her eyes adjust to the brightness of the main hall and heads briskly for the door to her chambers, sidestepping and weaving around solicitors and nobles who would demand her attention if given the chance.

“That’s better.” She sighs, when Solas closes the door behind them and shuts out the ever-present murmur that exists in the cavernous hall.

The pair ascend the stairs and are greeted with the delightful aroma of hot water and rosewood oil; the small room off the main bed chamber is bedecked with a graciously sized bathing tub and is illuminated by a large quantity of candles. The water within the tub is clear and clean and steams invitingly; the floor under their bare feet is already damp with condensation.

“Yes!” El’una hisses with elation, entering the closet fully and little time stripping away her clothing, doffing them carelessly on the stone with a number of clanks, clinks, and jingles. Solas follows suit, watching between articles of clothing as El’una stands naked and confident, her marked hand resting casually on her hip as she glances around the room and systematically snuffs out a number of candles with a gesture, further dimming the already darkened room. She lets out a sigh and shakes her head. “A candle snuffer might have been easier, I think.” She says.

Solas’ low laugh echoes against the walls and his trousers are balled up and tossed against the wall with his tunic. “Staffless magic is a demanding art.”

“I can think of _harder_ things.” She comments salaciously, winking at her beloved before stepping into the tub and lowering herself into the hot water, emitting a sound caught somewhere between a sigh and a whine; her eyes roll back in her head and then shut, and a broad smile stretches across her face as she settles against the back of the tub, her arms splayed cat-like over the sides.

Solas finds his own way into the tub of water, situating himself against the side and resting his feet over the edge so that El’una may stretch her legs out over his lap. Wet fingertips streak gently over glistening skin as he traces patterns over her shin, and he finds a sigh of his own.

“This is everything I wanted it to be.” She says eventually, her voice sleepy and relaxed, the fingertips of her left hand skimming over the water and casting green rays of light to ripple and dance prismatically across the ceiling and onto the surface of the tub. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Solas tilt his head forward slightly in curiousity as watches her mutter a few old words to the nourishing water that surrounds them and her fingers continue to dance within its essence. A rich emerald shade issues from the places where her fingers touch and the scent of earth and oakmoss joins the aroma of rosewood oil. She smirks as Solas watches the water around them both deepen in colour and substance. He scoops up a handful of it and watches it trickle down the sides of his palm, shimmering particles catching in the candlelight as it rejoins the rest of the bathwater.

“Had been meaning to try that.” She explains, drawing her fingers from the water and leaning her head back once more. “Glad it worked.”

“What made you think to try it at all?” He asks quietly.

“The way that still pool of water underneath the willows by the riverbank looked when it caught the midday sun today.” She answers distantly as if it were the most plain thing in the world. “I thought it might be nice to make water look like that whenever I wanted to.” Looking up when Solas’ only response is an amused huff, she says, “What?”

“I’ve not met a person in a long time who would think to do such a thing.” He tells her with a soft smile.

She mirrors his expression, meets his eyes and says, “I love you,” For moments such as these happen increasingly often it seems; moments where any call to say anything more is swept away and three exceedingly simple but foolish words are all that remain.

“I love you, my heart.” He tells her, disturbing the ambient silence as his arm breaches the surface of the water and he reaches forward to stroke her cheek with his fingertips. She leans into the touch, tilting her head and closing her eyes.

“Did people look… different to you at all today?” She asks.

“People always look different to me.”

“You know what I mean; when you actually looked at them, was it almost as though you could see… more of them? Perhaps as if their auras were cleaner and easier to pick out and identify?”

“I’m not certain I understand.”

El’una purses her lips and gently splashes a bit of water up over her stomach and chest while she thinks. “There was one experience I had when I was much younger - I had imbibed some of those strange mushrooms I told you about earlier, and I did it with a few members of my clan. One of the trader lads wanted to try it; he was young too - we had gotten our vallaslin months earlier, within weeks of each other. Sulenin, he was called. He was spirited, confident, skilled at the stalls and a master of words. We were sitting in a beautiful springtime clearing on a cloudless day. I felt wonderful… better than I’d ever felt. It was though I could physically feel my connection to the blades of grass under my palms and the leaves that rustled above the clearing: The leaves sang a song with the wind and the sunlight that caught their green made the dancers that surrounded me. I had never felt so truly and utterly free and hopeful - until I pulled my gaze from the trees and glanced at Sulenin.” She grunts and pulls her legs to her and twists in the tub, “Sorry.” She winces, reaching over the walls of the vessel and grasping for the bottle of wine and her discarded skirts. She’s silent as she digs in the pocket until a small, hinged knife is produced. She sits back in the tub with a splash, and sets about uncorking the wine, continuing her story as she works with wet hands.

“He sat a few paces from me on the grass, but where I was sprawled happily, he was curled up; crouched with his knees pulled up to his chin and his arms wrapped around them. He rocked back and forth slightly as he felt my eyes on him and his face turned to mine. He stared at me for a moment as though I was something alien and then murmured, ‘ _don’t look at me…_ ’ before turning away and resuming his unsettled rocking.” The cork comes free with a ‘pop’ and El’una tosses the knife and cork off to the side carelessly. “All around him the air was distorted. It was as if every bit of emptiness he came in contact with became blurred and harsh; light didn’t filter through it properly, and it was almost as though it was repelled by this curious disturbance around him. It was... “ She pauses. “Most mages describe individual auras with colour. This wasn’t like that. Colour was unaffected; he was not red or black. He was just… disturbed.” She takes a swig of wine from the bottle and looks at Solas, who is watching her intently. “Did you see anything like that today?”

Solas holds out a hand and waits for her to pass the wine to him before he answers. “Not to that extent.” He says after a drink. “The colours of auras, yes - they were brighter, more recognizable, and certainly easier to witness than usual, but I did not see anything like what you just described. Did you?”

“No.” She answers easily. “The same as you; just a better sense of what people project. You for example; you’re very golden - there’s a warmth and surety that lingers around you. In my quiet observance of you, I’m drawn to feel both liberated and inspired.”

He is silent for a long time. El’una is about to inquire when he finally speaks.

“Thank you.” He says with an earnestness she had not expected. “I’m not sure why but it lifts my heart to hear you say that.”

“Think nothing of it; I wouldn’t have fabricated such a claim for flattery alone.” She says. “What of me? What did you see when you gazed at me, Strange Solas?”

He stares upwards at nothing for a time, his hand cradling the bottle of wine that rests on her thigh as he considers.

“The look and colour of the still pool of water underneath the willows by the riverbank when it caught the midday sun.” He tells her finally. “It was a sight to behold.”

They speak very little after that, slipping into comfortable silence as they ride out the last, easy waves of El’una’s creation, both of them happy for water, and for darkness, wine, and for the other.


	8. Ale and Honey

She takes a deep drink, wipes her mouth and sighs - the taste of this honey ale it seems, has managed to marry itself to thoughts of the slightly smiling elf sitting across from her. The Singing Maiden is full tonight as the inhabitants of Haven bunch inside the tavern to get away from the brutal winter night in favour of finding warmth, cheer, and full bellies. Solas sits before her. She’s not sure why, but she can’t say she’s unhappy about it.

“Well, Strange Solas,” She says. “We find ourselves here again.” Her tankard is set down and the silver stacked on the table is snatched up neatly and trickled into her purse. Her fingers find the deck of cards in the centre of the table and she riffles the edge of them pointedly. “A reading brings you to my table?”

“If it pleases you.” He acquiesces, though his tone is cunning. “Again I have no silver to offer - though I doubt that comes as a surprise.”

She huffs and scoops up the cards, continuing to speak as her fingers perform work without thought. “I don’t want your riches, Solas.”

“Then what would you have of me?” He asks. “You have no need for libation; your mug is nearly full.”

“So it is. I’ve had six already, by my count.” She notes, pausing her work with the cards in order to take another long draught. “Well,” She rasps as she swallows, “Recompense will come in due time, in some form, I’m sure.”

Solas folds his arms and says, “I’ve learned many a time that it is unwise to agree to terms of unestablished payment with those who cater secrets and miracles.”

“Yes.” El’una agrees, looking down and smiling as she returns to shuffling and stacking the deck. She places it squarely before Solas and says, “The fortunate thing about that is that I am not spirit, nor are we in the Fade, so - if you please.” She gestures to the deck and sits back.

The cards are cut and returned to her hand. Thrice split and repeated, she returns them to a whole and fans them across the surface between them, her eyes only catching for a moment on a pair of swords leaning against the wall nearest to their table for a moment.

“Cups before, with no question in mind. I’d like to know this time, my friend; what would you know?”

He reaches out to touch a card without speaking and she snatches his wrist, feeling the warmth of his skin on her cold fingers and the pulse that ebbs strongly there.

“ _Ah-ah_.” She chides softly. “Past, present, or future - that’s all I ask.”

He studies her from under his brows, but does not pull from her grip until her fingers loosen and she leans back once again. “Present.” He settles on.

“Rarely do I encounter people who are interested in their present.” El’una says, taking another drink, her eyes sweeping over the cards between them. “Most deign to learn why their past foibles have lead them to the present, and the rest want to know what greatness awaits them - as if it will be better simply because it is the future. Most people overlook the present, seeming to labour under the impression that they are as self-aware and rooted in the moment as they possibly can be and that no one could shed any light that they do not already bear.”

“And?”

“You’re either regretful of your past, or unwilling to embrace the potential of your future. Possibly both.” She explains, setting her palms on the table with a number of clicks and clacks due to the rings on her fingers. “Or perhaps you be a bit more humble than the rest and feel that the present is of critical value to you.” She says airily, changing tone and demeanour quite rapidly. “Who am I to say? Your reasons are your own: I just flip the cards.”

“This.” He says in response, drawing free a card from the spread and turning it. “Cups again.” He notes.

“We are in a tavern.” El’una jokes, leaning forward and surveying the card. “A bit cheerier than the previous cups you drew, though, Strange Solas.” She says, drawing her finger over the slightly rather worn gold flake that dominates this particular card. “Dreams, dreams, dreams…” She mutters under her breath, taking her time to assess what this means for her ephemeral friend. She finds that in the closed distance between them that she’s uncomfortably aware of the scent of him and the shape of his hands, rested on the table. She swallows, regretting her own seventh cup, and pushes on. “Lot going on in this one, but some interesting similarities to your Five.

“The main feature, the ‘hero’ or ‘victim’ to this card, supposedly, is cloaked - indiscernible - much like your last reading. However he is square and open to the bright and varied plethora of possibilities that lay before him.” She points at one of the cups; one shaped like a woven band of elfroot, wrapped around the base of the chalice and says, “Hope and victory lay in his path.” Her finger drifts to the cup holding a scorpion, “Or perhaps a lesson to be learned.”

“I would see a scorpion more as a symbol of death or deception than a bearer of wisdom.”

“We don’t learn to avoid scorpions unless we get stung by them, do we not? Would you not agree that wisdom that entreats us to avoid them in the future?” She retorts. “Scorpions also flourish in the most arid and uninhabitable places the world offers… don’t you think one might put aside their immediate disdain of them so as to learn what makes them thrive?”

“You raise good points.” Solas concurs. “Though I doubt you have ever been stung by one.”

“I don’t plan to be.” El’una says quietly, betraying a private smile. “Essentially, there’s a variety of options before our mysterious friend in the card; some good, some bad - all intriguing and tempting. Tempting.” She repeats. “Choices lay before us all - our entire lives are choices - but you have many before you currently. This card belongs to that of a dreamer; someone capable of seeing every possibility available to him, regardless of how eccentric, fanciful, wise, or foolhardy.” Her eyes lift to meet his, and she speaks with the subtlest thread of magical intent. “It is wisest of all to discern dreams from that which is real: The most innocuous of things in the dreamer’s landscape may spell his doom, despite his desire for it, so I suggest care, caution, and the understanding that the most appealing cup may not be the best.”

“At least none are spilled.” He quips.

“At least none are spilled.” She agrees. “The possibilities that one encounters when they choose to turn from that which is lost are…”

“Remarkable?”

“Well,” She says, draining her ale. “They are better than nothing.”

He says nothing in response, and she can think of little else to say to fill the silence that falls between them as Solas polishes off his own ale. The mug is set down with a thud and he rises from the table. She prepares herself to bid him an unwilling goodbye when he extends and hand to her and says, “If you wish to talk about it further, we may find a more interesting place than this.”

Taken rather aback by the smooth utterance, she accepts the hand and rises, but says, “Interesting? What could be more interesting about another part of this place? Haven. Haven tavern. Haven Chantry. Haven apothecary - you’d best not be ‘dreaming’ of taking me back to your Haven _hut_.”

He laughs, his fingers drifting easily from her own as they leave The Singing Maiden. “No. I am not so coarse as to attempt something so crude. I only thought - Haven will always be important to you.”

“Of course.” She admits, frowning as they emerge into warm twilight rather than the deep night she had been sure lingered outside the tavern windows moments previously. “There are shapes; buildings, people, tents and beasts that I couldn’t forget if I tried. Despite the unfortunate circumstances of my arrival here, it was a rather grounding place for me during such a time of upheaval… as I’m sure it was to many others.” She pauses, skidding slightly in the fresh snow that tingles against the bare soles of her feet; something is off. “Solas, what are we - ?”

“Come.” He says, continuing ahead of her, carving a path through the snow with his casual, swaying gait.

“Why here?” She hisses, wishing for her comfortable silver-filled table at the tavern rather than the dismal wet cell she had awoken in a month earlier.

“You might have died here.” He tells her, and she can’t disagree with his truth as he narrates his vigil over her in the days following the explosion of the temple; his efforts to understand the mark on her hand, and his conviction to keep her from succumbing to it.

“Is this like a card thing, where I owe you something now?” She asks, staring around the darkened room.

“No.” He chuckles. “Though I might have disagreed as I sat here, searching and thinking for every bit of knowledge I might possess that could explain the mystery that you were.” His lips quirk as he speaks, and El’una understands that he takes pleasure in relaying this to her; why, she’s not sure, but she might go as far as to assume that he takes pride in the fact that he is able to give her answers where no one else has been able to up until this point.

She realizes she’s lost, then - has forgotten where she is in this conversation, and instead seizes upon mention of Cassandra’s name in order to crack a joke at the Seeker’s expense for the sake of bringing a proper smile to the apostate’s lips, and a decent laugh from his belly. “Can we leave, though? I tend to get hit by people in this room. I would hate to wind up unconscious once again.”

“Not by my hand.” Solas says, shaking his head and pacing from the dungeons and into the light again. “I couldn’t harm you if I wanted to.”

“Ahhh, a curiosity to you, is what I am then.” She mentions, smiling as she reaches down and re-arranges her skirts.

“I didn’t say that.” He retorts, though it is a quiet and sheepish remark. “I _did_ say that you hold the key to our salvation: A breach sealed with but a gesture. It would be dishonest to not admit that in that moment, I felt everything change.”

This is a curious choosing of words, she decides; most people El’una has known in her life fall under one of three categories: People who see things - real or imagined - and can bring them to life. People who hear things and are able to pick up on intricacies betrayed by speech and sound that most would miss. Or people who feel things; those who touch things in order to learn them or connect with them further than hearing and seeing will allow.

Most people give away which sort they are just by the words they use in casual conversation. A seer will frequently make mention of words like ‘ _imagine_ , ‘ _look_ ,’ or ‘ _revea_ l,’ and a listener will say things like, ‘ _hear_ ,’ ‘ _tell_ ,’ and other things related to what people can actually listen to if they pay enough attention. Feelers. Well… those are the easiest to pick out, due to their prevalence. They commonly make mention of all things related to touch; they speak of ‘ _making contact’_ with things and people. They ask you to ‘ _hold on_ ’ when they’re busy, or tell you to ‘ _loosen up_ ’ when you’re stressed.

What’s most curious about his choice of ‘ _felt_ ’ is that in her admittedly neophyte knowledge of Solas, he has never struck her as a Feeler. She feels her own head tilt in self-arguance as she notes that as a Seer who relies on what is plain to her more than anything else, a Feeler might be quite adept at slipping beyond her gaze.

Not at the moment, however.

“Felt?” She repeats finally, her eyes sweeping over him perceptively as he fumbles for an explanation of the metaphoric statement so that he might save himself an embarrassment: His fingers clench into fists and his typically upright posture seems to shrink slightly from somewhere near the base of his neck. His toes curl and uncurl in the snow and he blinks far more frequently than normal. “I am familiar with the metaphor - I’ve not spent my entire life knocking about a forest.” She says, holding her marked hand up. “What interests me more is your use of the word _felt_.”

“Why should it?” He asks.

“You make such mention of seeing, and dreaming, and wondering, and imagining, yet to date you’ve made no mention of _feeling_ anything - I don’t think that I’ve ever heard you expand on any of your knowledge of the Fade with language that suggests you feel anything for it. Yes, I understand your appreciation and marvel of it, but I have never heard you describe anything till now that made you feel.” She steps closer, and he does not move away. “Why?”

His eyes drop to the side, he swings his right hand distractedly by his side, and he says nothing for a time, and El’una watches him fight some sort of inner battle within his own mind until he looks up at her with stormy eyes and says, “You change…” He pauses, but finishes. “Everything.”

This is not the admittance of another pilgrim, bowing in her path as the Herald of Andraste walks to the privy. It is not the utterance of a Chantry sister who has seen too much blood and places her hopes in a Dalish mage. There is more to this statement, though she can’t place her finger on what. He says nothing more though, and her seven cups tell her that there’s nothing better to do at this particular moment turn to Solas, say, “ _Quite right_ ,” turn his face to hers with an ice cold hand, and push her lips to his - only for a second: For he is strange and awkward and beautiful, and more than anything - in need of a good kiss.

She bows her head and turns from him as she feels him stiffen in shock at the sudden action. Halfway to her lips are words; self-deprecating and aloof so that she may pass off this momentary indiscretion as nothing more than the result of one too many drinks. She looks off in the opposite direction and is almost about to speak when fingers wrap around the base of her arm and she is pulled closer to Solas than she had been before; her wet, snow-dampened toes brush against the inside of his feet, and she steadies herself with her hand upon his waist.

As if burned, she pulls her hand away and pulls back against the grip he has on her arm, but it is too late, and his lips are on hers this time. She’s pulled closer, Solas bearing over her as he leans into the kiss and she is given no other option but to rest her hand on him once again.

The kiss lasts longer than hers had, and he throws himself into it with such passion and fervour that she admits that her own knees feel weak, squeezed against his own as they embrace in the snow. He ushers her lips open with a most coquettish tongue, and she muses upon the fact that although she had felt pride at getting the aloof elf to betray some feeling, she had not been expecting this in response.

Just as her left hand dances up to grasp the back of his neck and deepen the kiss further, he pulls away, setting a good deal of distance between them as he looks to the side and hold his hands up wardingly, as if she is some sort of beast that kills men by meeting their gaze.

She gains her feet on the slick melted snow beneath her, and the frigid winter wind makes her damp, hot lips feel cold in the sudden contrast of sensation. Quizzically, she stares at Solas, words not needed to dictate her desire for an explanation.

His hands drop and he chokes out an excuse about why it isn’t right; she’s hard-pressed to disagree.

“Where are we?” She demands.

“Haven.” He answers simply, letting out a sigh and letting his arms fall to his side as he paces to the side listlessly.

“But that’s not possible. Haven is gone.” She whips around, glancing from side to side, her skirts and accoutrements jingling effectively. “This isn’t real!” She accuses, wheeling her gaze back to Solas, who stands nearby, collected once more with his hands clenched behind his back: One would have no guess of their actions moments earlier; the only giveaway of the brief dalliance being the slight redness that lingers around his lips.

“About as real as cups and scorpions, but we can discuss that later, after you’ve woken up.”

Her head is tossed and she steps forward, “After I’ve woken up?” She repeats, feeling a curious lightening feeling in her gut. Solas becomes immaterial and Haven melts around her like a waxwork left in the sun on a hot day.

Her eyes open and she finds herself leaning against a rotted beam in the middle of Skyhold’s main hall. People mill around her, despite the late hour, with brooms and sacks of debris. She coughs and turns her head to the fireplace where a scrawny shem is poking a brush into the floo, ducking as a bat whirls free every now and then.

A _nap_. She’d taken a nap: Four hours earlier, by the guess of it: She’d tried to find Solas upon hearing of his occupation of the crow tower, but unable to find him, she’d settled outside for a rest.

She hisses, slaps her palm to the ground, rights herself and strolls into the room where he would linger currently if he knew what was good for him. As she goes, her tongue darts out to lick her lips; they taste of ale and honey.


	9. Sprains and Sorrow

A hurting heartbroken mask of horror - that is what exists written upon every visible attribute of Solas’ face. She is frankly shocked when he turns to her with this face; there is such a sense of hurt, hopelessness, and raw pain pouring off of him.

She quickly decides she never wants to see this face again.

Smiles are indeed preferable.

“Solas, I’m so sorry, I - “ She begins, stepping forward and reaching out to grasp his shoulder so that she may physically create an emotional circuit. He flinches away from her touch though, and rounds on the nervous looking mages standing near the smouldering wreck that had been their summoning circle moments earlier.

She sees Varric shake his head and shoulder Bianca. He turns and strolls away, muttering something to Cassandra that El’una cannot hear before the Seeker falls into step with the dwarf and embarks a distance away from the despondent apostate.

Looking on, she feels rather disconnected from reality as it dawns on her that not only is her friend exceptionally distressed by the suffering of Wisdom and its resultant death, but he is also seemingly in the grips of another emotion that is alien to witness:  Fury. He is not about to let these mages go with a rap on the knuckles and a good tongue-lashing. The realization that Solas means to do the misguided fools harm takes a moment to sink in, and although it does not feel good, she is surprised when she finds very little fight within her in regard to stopping him: After all, the memories of a child too sick to survive continue to play in her mind every time she closes her eyes - coming upon the mortally ill girl and her parents in the Hinterlands a fortnight ago had left El’una with much the same simmering rage Solas is feeling now: What sort of completely blind fools refuse to obtain appropriate care for an ailing child in favour of tributes to Andraste and concoctions made of absolutely nothing meaningful?

Beliefs and faith are one thing; willful ignorance at the cost of an innocent life is something entirely different.

It had taken everything within herself on that day to not lay a curse on the mother and father of the child when she returned to camp - one that would result in a long, drawn out and painful death by means of an unidentifiable illness symptomized by the sufferer’s peculiar and inexplicable ability to speak, or make any sound - the ultimate justice for someone who had betrayed the innocent silence of a child.

And yet… surrounded by candles, a vial of finely grated beeswax, the charred bones of three hens aged no more than two-hundred-and-four days at the time of their death, and a bobble of sewing thread, with the words balanced on the tip of her tongue; she found she could not do it. And it wasn’t even that _she_ couldn’t do it - had this been any normal day, in her normal life, before she woke up in a dungeon with a glowing green mark on her hand and a hole in the sky, she would have laid the curse without a second thought - no one would know. No one would be able to explain the mysterious deaths that had befallen the neglectful parents. Their blood would have been a burden she bore quietly and privately for the rest of her days.

The truth of the matter; the reason she blew out the candles, swept the hen bones off to the side with a bare foot, and trudged from the tent in an incensed fashion was simply that _The Inquisitor_ couldn’t do it: There was no longer any anonymity in her comings and goings - someone would find out, be it directly, or indirectly, and a secret like that coming to light might paint a larger target on her back than there had been already.

The woman leading an organization based on restoring order could not be seen passionately doling out justice on the streets and allowing her emotions to dictate whom she would harm and whom she would help - especially not in such a controversial manner: Despite the stirrings of feeling within her for Solas, there was no rational justification for her behaviour.

This epiphany hadn’t prevented her - at the time - from unleashing a verbal barrage on the peasantry that turned even Cassandra’s ears red. The final thing she did before continuing on down the road was roughly cram a vial into the shaking hand of the girl’s mother while saying, “For her final hours - it’ll lessen the pain. Yours, however: May you find no salve for it.”

She very much understands Solas’ wish that these mages find no salve for their pain either; hunted or not, they had alternatives, and they had chosen the worst of them.

She should stop this, yet she cannot find the words to make it so: In full understanding of the burning gaze Solas throws her way - not one that asks permission, but rather implies acceptance - she sheathes her sword over her shoulder, adjusts her grip on her staff, and turns away with a detached shrug, following after Cassandra and Varric.

Mercifully, the mages do not have time to scream.

* * *

 

He is gone for days afterwards, and even when one of Leliana’s birds informs her of his return, she does not seek him out; the idea of coming face to face with him fills her with shame and disgust.

It is wrong, what she did; unsettled stomach plagues her following the events with Wisdom’s demise, and sleep is a friend that is more difficult to locate than Solas. She is guilty by association and allowance; letting Solas murder the mages was self indulgent, ethically suspect, and above all else - morally criminal. She hadn’t even tried to talk him down. Instead, she had projected her own feelings of vengeance denied upon the situation in some wayward hope that it would make her feel better about the mortally ill child she could not save or avenge.

Wrong.

This is not how the Inquisitor should behave; this is not how _any_ person should behave. What business does someone like that have leading an organization that is primarily founded on justice, order, and stability?

None.

That’s precisely what she said to Cassandra this moring - stone-faced and factual - as she explained to the Seeker why she was not cut out for this role, and would be immediately surrendering all title, claim, and chattel as Inquisitor.

She’s uncertain what bothered her more: The fact that Cassandra laughed at all, or the fact that she had laughed at El’una’s moral torture over the fact that she had allowed a member of the Inquisition to kill three people out of passion alone: She’s still not sure what the case is, but Cassandra’s words stick with her now regardless.

“It is done. Being charged with leading is hard - as I am sure you are aware due to your position within your clan - you were faced with an option in the Plains; injustice was served to that… spirit. Its pain was clear to all in the area, especially Solas. You could have forced him to show them mercy for not only torturing that spirit, but forcing it to become a demon as well. What message would that send to Solas, the mages, and all who would hear of it after? The option you chose resulted in the loss of three lives - all sentient, all capable of making their own choices, as you are, and as Solas is. He made his choice, Inquisitor. Leaving the corpses of the mages and the demon left for a scene of unfortunate happenstance for those who might come across it - we are here to defeat Corypheus and restore order. It behooves us to remain focused on the task at hand instead of complicated moral dilemmas.”

With this in mind, she stands in the gardens now, having glimpsed Solas there from the battlements moments earlier and twisting an ankle in her haste to get to him. He steps forward to help her when she folds to the ground before him, coating her knees in grass-stains and her palms in soil, but before he can properly reach out to her she is already afoot and wiping her hands absently on her skirts as she asks, “You’re alright?”

“Am I alright?” He asks, rocking back and shaking his head slightly at the sight of her.

“Missed a step.” El’una says dismissively, waving away the need for any further concern for her bruised shins with but an absent swipe through the air. “You came back.” She observes, once again complete in her self-collection, regaining her comfortable air of genuine but perceptive empathy.

“Two days from a week.” Solas notes; ever an equal in realms of perception. “All misplaced self-importance aside, I can’t imagine a scenario in which such a fact might have escaped the Inquisitor’s knowledge for such a length of time.”

He gazes intently at her now, and she gazes back as each searches the other’s face for some unintentional betrayal that might give away the best way to move forward from here: The garden is busy - full of petitioners, gardeners, and chantry folk alike - and El’una is more than aware of the ever-keen eyes of Mother Giselle on her neck. It occurs to her that perhaps it may be wiser to avoid standing static in the middle of the garden for this discussion - this repentance.

Without meaning to, her hand falls slowly to the deck of cards at her hip and she says, “Come walk with me?” And when Solas nods in agreement, she sets off back up the stairs she had scrambled down moments earlier - though she is slow to rise them, favouring the twinge that lingers in her left ankle. “I owe you an apology.” She admits in lazy elven; a bastardized mix of her people’s language, and that of the common tongue.

The wind is cold in the mountains, and it whips around her as she grips the stone railing with one hand and her skirts with the other as she hobbles up the steps, aware of Solas’ presence behind her as well as her surety that should her twisted limb fail her, he would most certainly catch her.

“An apology?” He repeats softly, his voice only just matching the volume of their surroundings. “Not what I expected, being that I am the one who disappeared without a trace for four days.”

“Four days, was it?” She asks, glancing over her shoulder as she reaches the top of the battlements. “Who was counting?” She wonders, stepping gingerly down the wall and leaning against the stone that separates her from the thousand foot fall on the other side. When a wince ghosts across her face, Solas looks at her imploringly.

“I could alleviate that.” He says.

“Don’t be ridiculous: It’ll settle itself in moments.” She assures him, pressing the ball of her pained foot into the stone and lifting her heel so as to stretch the inflamed tendons. “I’m just glad you chose to return at all.”

“You thought I might not?”

“Not every day you see a friend tortured, caged, and ultimately killed despite your best efforts.” She points out. “Not every day you murder three people for little more than being fools either.” A slight flexing of a muscle in his jaw is all Solas gives away at her words before she continues. “There is no blame to be cast for that, though.” Wrapping herself in her own arms to ward against the cold, she crosses her left leg over her right and does not remove her eyes from Solas. “If anyone failed that day it was I: Not because I didn’t stop you from harming those mages, but rather because I failed to find a solution in which such an eventuality never came to pass.”

“So you would punish yourself for that which you cannot hope to control?” He says, staring not at her, but at the lights of distant Inquisition camps burning in the valleys around them.

She shakes her head, “Not punish - repent: Grieve for the pain, sorrow, and loss of life: For Wisdom and the mages. I would fear for the fear those men and women felt that drove them to such lengths, and I would strive to find a better way.” She twists in place and turns to take in the same view as Solas. “Circle mages are not that stupidly cavalier - what hopelessness must they have felt to decide that binding Wisdom was their only option?” She asks quietly.

“You justify them?” He responds, and there is a detectable coolness to his voice that is on par with the temperature of the wind.

“Never.” She answers with ease. “I’d only seek to be effective in my capacity as Inquisitor - and more importantly as a person - so that people are not left to live in a world where such acts of desperation are the only hope they may cling to.”

Solas shakes his head only slightly, and still does not look at her. “An idealistic aim.” He says.

“Perhaps. I’m sure you wondered why I kept my distance - despite your insistence that you didn’t: For that fleeting moment, I allowed the world to become black and white; something that is not acceptable: Not for a turner of cards, not for an Inquisitor, and not for the First of a clan. I couldn’t face myself, upon that realization… let alone you.” She feels his eyes on her at last. “Spilled wine, upright bottles - remember?” Not turning away from the beautiful view before her, she does allow her eyes to flick sideways to meet Solas’ own. “You are never alone, Strange Solas.”

“I…” He pauses, and she knows he is carefully seeking the right words to say. “I thank you.” He says eventually. “The slight is not your own; I wouldn’t have you carry it as a burden. I am only grateful to have your trust… returning such trust is something that has not been asked of me in a long time.”

She sighs deeply and rolls her shoulders as she inhales the fresh air. “Asking can get you many things, as I’ve mentioned before, but it does not win a person all: Asking you to trust me with little or no validity to why I’m asking such a thing would fall flat. Trust is earned, not expected or owed.” She faces him squarely now, smiling properly. “So I suppose I will only have to keep paying into your ledger of trust in what small ways I can.”

Oddly, Solas appears to be at a loss for words for once, and she is overwhelmed by the uncomfortable sense that while she has indeed mended this bridge, she may not have done it with complete honesty to herself: Her explanation was very Inquisitor-ial, and not very El’una.

Had she been truly honest, she would have said, _‘I let you kill those mages because I hated seeing you in so much pain, and I wanted to make it better however I could, and now I’m utterly disgusted with myself and am not sure how I will continue to sleep at night, but eh, at least you’ve returned! Funny world, isn’t it?_ ’

Perhaps he understands anyway; he certainly hadn’t sought her out upon his return either. There is an implied shame that hangs over the pair of them for the actions that occurred, and how they were handled.

He smiles, and her own falters.

They are both dangerous.


End file.
